


The Corinthians Project

by Calicy



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Nyota Uhura Week, for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2018-05-20 15:44:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 102,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6014731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calicy/pseuds/Calicy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You would know the secret of death.<br/>But how shall you find it unless you seek it in the heart of life?" (K.G., The Prophet)</p><p>***</p><p>Nyota awaken in a strange institute with no recollection of how she came to be there. Far away, Nyota’s daughter studies the virus which took her mother, looking for answers, much to her father Spock's chagrin. All the while, unseen forces work to bring them all together, for better or worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Prologue

Everything goes according to plan. A hidden connection is established at 8:45:17:01. The system is anonymously entered at 8:45:18:09 A.M. By 8:47:36:02 A.M., the mainframe has been accessed. The connection to the basement electrical system is made by 8:48:15:30 A.M. 

There is hesitation, surprisingly, for a moment. Earlier, there had been worry. Not that there would be a negative outcome. That probability was low: 0.892%. Just that this would not end as hoped, that the outcome would be undesirable in some way and it would be unbearable given all the risk and deceit. Then, on the screen watching the others, everything comes into place so perfectly. Every person in their intended location, everything prepared and ready. It could only be fate and it drives away all weariness. 

There is hesitation but only for a moment, then emboldened, it continue. The two pods, which are approximately 715 feet away, are disconnected. Not one. One would be suspicious. Two. 8:50:07:03 A.M. It is finished. It is above the law. 

The camera shows them running. There is a mistake. The surgeon is not the one expected. Later, the schedule is reviewed again and the switch is noticed. It was not planned, unbeknownst to all involved. 

But that is not what is important. What is important is about to occur. 

They are apprehensive. This has never happened before. Yet, they know what to do. They had been trained and drilled over and over for this very moment. They do not notice everything is set up, waiting for them. 

Wait. 

The sound of the alarm. The sound of freedom. 

.  
.  
.

“Can you describe how many fingers I’m holding up?” 

The technician’s voice is gentle, like a father talking to his baby. The female patient stares at the hand for a moment. She squints her eyes, mouthing words. The technician waits, patiently for a few silent moments and then lowers his hand. He reaches to turn off the recorder. 

“That’s alright. We haven’t worked on that yet -”

“Was that a trick question?” the patient asks. 

The technician almost knocks the recorder off the table, “I’m sorry?” 

“Was that a trick question?” The patient asks again. 

“No,” the technician replies, smiling. He has never had a patient like this. Most of his new cases can barely feed themselves, let alone speak. They babble for months, before they can ever utter an understandable words. Yet, somehow, this woman is already capable of full speech. The files are correct; she must have been a master of words in her first life and she is responding to treatment accordingly. 

“You were holding up four fingers and one thumb,” the patient responds, before she grins and looks down, studying her hands. Her fingernails feel strangely bare, “I just like to be thorough.”

“That’s fine!” The technician makes a note of her response. In only three session, she demonstrated an ability to count to a thousand by any increment, recognized and gave detailed descriptions of colors, and the results of her reflex test from their last session are hanging, as an inspiration for the other technicians, on the director’s door. 

The patient folds her hands on her lap and watches the technician. When he finishes writing, she looks at him expectantly. The technician is happy to oblige her, “What kind of hint would you like today?”

The patient goes over the facts she knows already. She does not know where she has been or where she is now but she was born in Nairobi, Kenya. Her birthday is March 20th but she does not know what year that occurred or what year it currently is. Last week, she learned she had a younger sister and a younger brother. Her father was a professor of Applied Mathematics at Nairobi University and her mother was the Chair of that same department. 

She does not know where her family is now but she remembers that when she heard of her parents’ professions, she instantly recalled a vivid memory. Her family was hosting a large faculty dinner. She was eight, hiding behind her father’s chair, listening to the dozens of languages the guests speak, happily recognizing bits and pieces and mentally remembering words she wants to look up later. 

Her father had made a joke about his wife, “She’s my boss at home and at work.” The guests had laughed. The patient remembers her younger self had made note of the fact that the sound of an Andorian laughing was different from that of an Orion. 

The voices in that room, particularly their jovial tones, were so familiar. Instantly, it had felt like a part of an image finally becoming recognizable in a puzzle. They had been her mentors. Those voices had guided her through early obstacles. They meant something to her beyond that childhood memory. She can barely contain the excitement in her voice. “Tell me where I went for my undergraduate degree.”

The technician glances at her file, “You attended Nairobi University. Graduated at 19.”

The patient contemplates the fact. Yes. This is a truth. Sometimes, to test her, the technician will lie. The patient nods and the technician grins back. However, there is something bothering the patient. Since inquisitiveness is always encouraged at the institute, she says, “Is that all?”

The technician’s smile widens, “Is what all?”

Some recollections are come to her in fragmented pieces with time bringing more and more clarity until she is able to slowly form whole memories. This is not one of those times. It affronts her quickly like remembering someone’s name after a brief lapse during a social interaction. Nairobi University had not been the end. She had diverged on her path. Her parents had been disappointed but she had felt a pull towards something greater which could not, would not be denied. 

“I earned two undergraduate degrees. Where was the second one earned?”

“Hang on. The director will want to know about this recollection,” the technician says, typing quickly into his electronic notepad. The patient watches the words forming on the screen. She cannot understand them but they are achingly familiar. The technician sends the communication and then faces the patient, “You attended Nairobi University and then Starfleet Academy.” 

“Starfleet,” the patient says, nodding. She lets the words settle and they are warm and soothing. Images in her mind, stirred up from murky depths, become sharper, more resolved, “I remember pieces. Tall buildings, an ocean breeze, and red. Does that meant anything?”

“It does but I’ll let you handle that,” the technician says flipping through her files on his PADD. He comes to a section and whistles, “Got into the Academy on your first try. Pretty impressive.” 

This is where her memory goes dark again. The technician is waiting, expecting something. The patient searches her mind but there is nothing. She can’t remember what her major was, where the school was located, or anything of substance about the academy itself. Just patches. A woman with green skin and a striking white smile. Machines with features she doesn’t remember how to use. Strange ships with flawless white tiles. 

“Is that good?” the patient asks, “Is it hard to get in on the first try?”

The technician nods and when he speaks again his voice is kind and paternal once more, “Yes, dear. It is.” The technician begins putting his things away, “You did good today. I’m very proud. You’re an inspiration.”

They have a session every day but when she realizes this one is coming to an end, she begins to panic, “Can I have another fact?”

The technician pauses. At the best of times, he is overly relenting. It causes her guilt to manipulate him but not overwhelming guilt. “No. Sorry but it’s procedure.”

“Please,” the patient says, her voice fragile. She is lost. The technician’s hints are the light to put her back on the path.

Then there are the questions. Some she wants answered. Other she is too afraid to have answered. Why is she here? Where is here? How did this happen? Who is she? Who was she?

“I need to know who they are,” she finally says. There are faces with blurred features that float around in her mind and stir up strong emotions. They meant something to her and the need to know more occupies her every thought.The patient leans forward, her fingers anxiously gripping the table. “Just one more. Just this once. I wouldn’t tell a soul. I swear.”

The technician drums his fingers. “I’ll compromise,” He pulls a digital card from inside his briefcase, scribbles two words on it, and gives it to her. “Read it.”

Patients at the institute often develop like babies. They progress through each stage of verbal development: crying, cooing, babbling, before they ultimately form recognizable words. The institute has plans to introduce other skills like reading and writing after verbal development is complete but the patient is advanced. She already has a firm grasp on her letters although sounding out individual words is still a struggle for her. When he can, the technician likes to passively encourage her skills. 

The patient grabs the digital card the moment the technician is finished writing, her actions leaving an errant stroke from where his pen marked as she pulls the card towards her. Her eyes trace the curves and lines of the letters but recognition escapes her. Her vision grows blurry, her traitorous eyes showing her disappointment very much against her will, “This isn’t fair. Why are you keep doing this to me? You know I only speak Swahili. I can only read in Swahili. What is this?”

“Can you not read it?” the technician asks. 

She looks back at the digital card again. She prays for what at that point is next to impossible. She is lacking. In the back of her mind, she knows she has pushed herself that day and she should be proud of that. She isn’t though. She doesn’t even know what it is but she has lost something and every fiber of her being needs to find it again. 

She brings the card close to her face as if this is all she need do and some magic will tell her what she is looking at. Her jaw become tight with frustration. “No. I can’t read this.”

She hands it back to him but he holds up a hand to stop her, “You keep it. You can read it. Trust me.”

His tone of voice is familiar. He wants her to think, to elaborate. 

Later, she does, often and with great frustration at the task, especially that night when there is no other distraction. 

She is so consumed, she skips breakfast the next day. She does not join the other patients for a walk around the compound as she had taken the habit of doing, nor does she go to the cafeteria for lunch. She stares. As if it is the only thing in the world, she stares. 

She knows the letters, recognizes them but strung together, they mean nothing to her. The technician gave her gibberish. 

At one point, frustrated, she buries the thing under her mattress. Then she digs it out and holds it up to the light. Perhaps it is a trick. No. It’s not a trick. In the garbage it goes. She paces for a few moments and then upends the trashcan to find the card. She traces the words before her with her finger, hoping that the act of writing them will bring something back. Nothing. She puts the disk in a drawer in her desk and slammed it away. Second later, she is carrying the disk in her pocket as she stomps down the hall. 

The patient passes the portrait of the African woman, the one she find both intimidating and nostalgic, on her way. This was intentional. There are three portraits in the hall but she only has eyes for the one in the middle. The patient glances at the portrait, not long enough for her gaze to seem meaningful to others, but long enough to takes in the woman’s high cheek bones, elegantly arched eyebrows, and lush mouth which bring a myriad of emotions to the patient, before then the patient averts her eyes and continues on her way. 

The patient goes to the library first. It’s a massive room with row after row of real, paged books. The very idea of it brings chills to the patient’s spine. Her old self liked the idea of holding and feeling literature too. She is not very good at reading, even in Swahili, yet but it is coming back to her quickly with practice and it’s much preferable to her thoughts. 

On the eastern wall of the library, there is a set of french doors which lead out to the yard. The patient stops for a moment to admire her surroundings. An acre of thick green grass lies before her and beyond that a lake so wide she cannot see the opposite bank. The sky is bright blue and crystal clear. The circumference around the institute is trimmed with colorful, blooming roses. Whoever built this place meant for it to be beautiful for its inhabitants. The patient sits down on a marble bench under a tree and begins reading.

The patient likes reading. It is fascinating to think that no letter alone, save for a few, can mean anything on their own. Each word is the sum of its parts. She mentally reviews the phonetic sound of each letters in the alphabet. She thinks it would be more appropriate for her to be annoyed that some letters have multiple phonetic sounds but she isn’t. Far from it. She appreciates that fact as well. Letters have many faces, just like people. 

There had been a few dozen children’s books in the library which the patient had ignored but the book she choose is well illustrated and it has very few complex words. She covers the picture while she reads and then uncovers the image to affirm what she thinks she has read. 

The first words are rusty and she reads them out loud to see if they make more sense when spoken. They do indeed. There is a small village being harassed by an ogre. She continues reading aloud. The ogre is raiding and eating all the village’s cattle and food and destroying their homes. The patient lifts her hand. The image confirms this. There is a maiden who gathers food for the village whom the ogre falls in love with. The maiden learns where the ogre’s home is. The patient flips through the books slowly. When she once struggled, she now enjoys the book. The ogre’s raids begin to overtake the village’s resources. The maiden brings the warriors of her village to the ogre’s hiding spot. The ogre is defeated and becomes a mountain. 

As she closes the book, she realizes she has heard this story before. 

This brings a patch of another recollection. A little girl’s laugh. The patient thinks perhaps it was her younger sister’s but assigning that identity to that laugh does not seem right. The patient revels in the memory of the laugh. At one point, in her past life, this fact had been true: if she had been allowed to do nothing else but illicit that that laugh for rest of her life, she would have been content.

It brings her no calm to recall though. Instead she feels empty. That is a commonplace in her current situation. She wonders if this fact will ever change.

“Look who it is!”

The patient looks up. A perky nurse is pushing a dark haired man with a familiar glare towards her. The man is making obvious gestures at the nurse but his caregiver’s eyes look peacefully past her charge’s attempts at communications. 

“Here we go,” Nurse Aziza says. She pushes Bo’s wheelchair through the last bit of gravel, past a patch of grass and over to the bench where the patient is sitting. Nurse Aziza places a hat onto Bo’s head, rubs white patch of sunscreen on his cheek so the lotion absorbs into his skin, “Here’s your friend.”

“No,” Bo says. He enunciates the word to emphasize his point. He point back to the building where his room is, “No!”

“Alright,” Nurse Aziza replies. She turns to the patient, asking in rapid fire Swahili, “Can he stay with you for a bit again? I need to bathe two patients.” 

The patient nods. 

Nurse Aziza pats Bo on the head and tells him, her words much slower, “I’ll be back in an hour.”

When Nurse Aziza is gone, Bo looks at the patient. She smiles at him. His cheekbones rise slightly as he makes a slightly pleasant face back at her and then immediately he begins pulling on the brakes of his wheelchair. The patient looks at the belt on Bo’s waist holding him up in his chair. He is too weak to turn off the brakes and with a sigh he looks at her. The patient shrugs at him. 

Bo reaches out and turns up the cover of the book in her arms. 

“It’s the story of Ngong Hills outside Nairobi,” the patient tells him, “Enkong'u emuny.” 

Bo stares at her mouth. He does not speak fluent Swahili, unlike most of the staff and some of the other patients. He mutters under his breath, “Nejong.”

The patient holds up a picture in the book for him to see. She points to the lush green hills, “Ngong.”

“Nejong,” Bo replies. He looks at her expectantly. 

“No, that’s good,” the patient says, nodding so he knows she is giving her approval. She concentrate for a moment before saying, in the language Bo understands, “How are you?”

“Good,” Bo says nodding. Then, after several seconds of silence, he adds, “Mimi ni vizuri.”

The patient smiles genuinely at him and she notices the side of Bo’s mouth twitch in response. 

“How are your sessions going?” the patient asks in his language. She wishes there were something else they could talk about but there is little else the patients do at the institute.

Bo reaches into his pocket and pulls out a digital card. The patient sees a detailed anatomical illustration on its surface. She shakes her head. Bo must have been a genius in his previous life. She has recalled much more than he has in sessions but what he has, she envies. He knows his name and he knows he was a scientist. She can only remembers bits of her childhood and has the vaguest of feelings about her adolescence. 

“Lungs,” Bo says, pointing to his illustration, “Pafu.”

“Beautiful,” the patient says. She pulls out her own card. Bo takes it from her. The patient waves a hand over the words, “Confusing. Nonsense. Nothing.”

“Star. Freedom,” Bo reads. He turns and nods to her, “Nonsense.”

“What?” the patient says, “You can read that?”

Bo is staring at her so she points to the first word, “Star?” Her hand moves to the second word, “Freedom? This is your language?”

Bo nods again, “Star. Freedom.”

“Star. Freedom,” the patient repeats. This recollection hits her quickly, “Nyota Uhura. That’s my name.” She grabbed her friend’s forearm, both as a gesture of affection and to steady herself at the revelation, “He gave me my name.”


	2. Chapter 2

Amandla is experiencing xerostomia, no doubt a side effect of the sedative she administered to herself. Water would bring some relief but she currently has no desire for any sustenance. 

 

Without thinking, she begins gnawing on the cuticle of her left thumb. Several seconds pass before she even becomes aware that she is chewing her nail. When she does notice she is indulging in the old vice, she quickly pulls her hand away and sits on the digit. Her recording program is taking an agonizing amount of time to open. She drums her fingers on the desk, the false fear rising through her chest again. A chill seems to pass through the room. She glances behind her. The laboratory is climate controlled, as would be expected for their work, but the autopsy room is kept at a much lower temperature. Her spine is humming with nervousness but the door is closed and she chastises herself for being so ridiculous. 

 

Even at the beginning of her career, she had not been afraid of corpses. At most, she was grossly fascinated and slightly leery. Now, she is still not afraid. Merely apprehensive. The room and its freezer cannot be the source of the chill but it does bring up recent unpleasant memories. The sight of the door fills her mind with images of flatlining monitors and the same vision is burned into her eyelids, flashing each time she blinks. She allows herself to chew her nails again.

 

It is well past midnight and the laboratory is empty. She allows herself to lean on her elbows. She has not eaten in approximately 19.4 hours. A large pack of chewy sour candy and half a can of an energy drink had been her only snack since she had arrived at work. She requires of meal of at least 2435.71 calories to compensate for her lack of nutritious food for the past 28.253 hours. 

 

She is alone, mercifully. No one around to tell her this kind of behavior is unhealthy, possibly even destructive or to remind her that what she is doing and what she so desperately hoped for or now wants is, in one incredibly generous word, absurd. Not that she would admit to what it is she wants. She is well aware that if such circumstances arose, she would deny her own thoughts with her dying breath. 

 

Amandla rubs her eyes. Here she is, trapped in the lab, hours past midnight, consumed with making notes and conducting tests. The minute this opportunity had arisen, she had tripped over herself to take it. Now, she is pondering the merit of that decision and others. Of course, she knows why she is here still, arguing with herself and reanalyzing every detail. She know why nothing can drag her away from the lab. She feels guilt, even a little self-loathing at her selfishness, but she is still here. It seems to be happening a lot these days.

 

The program is finally opened. She switches on the recording function, clearing her throat as she pulls the microphone close, even though she know it will not steady the nervous twinge in her voice. 

 

“This is the autopsy report for Lieutenant Jerome Wyatt Hawkins,” Her mind wanders as she describes minor external physical details: the lieutenant's height and weight, the color of his eyes and hair. She had not taken any notes. She almost never does, unless someone else will need to see such findings. 

 

Her eyes are burning and she closes them for a moment. In that split second, she sees the Lieutenant. 

 

_ “What happened?”  _ The Lieutenant had asked when he’d been able to, _ “You were a kid. What happened on the mission?” _

 

Amandla continues, barely hearing what she is saying. She is not a pathologist or a medical examiner but she can do tasks requiring exact processes with almost no thought involved. An autopsy and recording her findings on said autopsy are such tasks. Despite not having done one in years, it came back to her easily. 

 

She can hear the words spewing from her mouth, “preliminary blood examination showed no signs of drug use,” “I conclude based on superficial analysis that there is no damage to the internal organs of the thoracic cavity however I will confirm this with testing,” “digestive system and accessory organs are healthy and intact.” They are easy words to say. She had expected not to see anything amiss is those areas. 

 

By the time she comes to the part of her report where it is necessary to describe her examination of the brain, her thumb is bleeding and her other arms is wrapped tightly around her waist.

 

“Cause of Death: Major Hemorrhagic Cerebrovascular Insult,” Amandla concludes. She can’t shake the feeling that someone else is speaking instead her. She submits the report. Then she waits. Fifteen minutes and fifty four seconds later, she gets the message she was expecting. 

 

**‘Can I call?’** the text reads. It’s Uncle Jim. Even the mere sentence makes her a little less nervous. She responds with an affirmative quickly. Her communicator rings a few seconds later and she answers without checking the number. 

 

“Hello,” Amandla says. Her voice sounds weak even to her own ears. 

 

“Hi,” her husband Taka says when he hears her pick up. His voice is still tense; he hasn’t forgotten the argument they had had that morning. She can barely remember what the whole thing was about. Dishes or something equally as unimportant. What she can recall is that she wanted something to be angry about and he gave it to her, albeit unintentionally, as always,“Your daughter can’t sleep.”

 

She is silent, confused that Taka is calling and not Uncle Jim and too exhausted to process the mistake.

 

“Look, I know you’re busy with everything,” Taka says. His voice has changed. He is forgiving her already. He always forgives easily, even if she doesn’t necessarily apologize. He couldn’t have lasted over a decade with her if he didn’t have such a shocking degree of patience.

 

Amandla hears the crackling of their child coughing on his side of the line, “You need the nebulizer. The machine is under her bed. The medicine is in my cabinet in the bathroom.”

 

She waits while he goes searching for their daughter’s asthma treatment. She hears a cabinet slam shut and then few minutes later, the hum of the breathing machine.  

 

“She’s fine. She’s already falling asleep again,” Taka tells her. 

 

Amandla murmurs to indicate her comprehension. 

 

“When are you coming home?” he asks, adding quickly, “What time?”

 

Amandla freezes, staring at her autopsy report in front of her. 

 

_ You look just like her.  _

 

That’s what Lieutenant Hawkins had said before, his lips quivering. No one had ever said that to her. Was it true? She had almost never seen pictures. Commander Spock and her grandparents had tucked them away and Uncle Jim only had few, most of which only showed glimpses of her mother’s face. Her mother never seemed to stand still, even when being photographed. Kinetic. That was something Amandla remembers about the woman. 

 

Amandla had tucked a blanket around the Lieutenant for warmth and he had clutched her hand like it was a life preserver. She hadn’t pulled away, despite the inconvenience. His muscle tone had needed examining anyway. 

 

_ You look just like her. _

 

Those were his last words, spoken mere hours ago. He was gone along with so many answers to unasked questions. Amandla feels her mind wandering, defensively away from the situation. She doesn’t want to bring all this home with her. 

 

“Yeah,” Taka says, despite the fact that she hasn’t said anything. 

 

The communicator is blinking. Uncle Jim is calling. “I need to go. I’ll call later.”

 

“Yeah,” Taka says, his voice empty. He hangs up before she does. 

 

Amandla inhales deeply to center herself before she projects Uncle Jim’s call onto her screen so they can speak face to face, “Hello.”

 

“There’s my little girl,” Uncle Jim says, the sight of his smiling face easing her rattled mind, “How are you?”

 

Amandla lowers her chin, her gaze locked on his. Uncle Jim shudders. 

 

“Channeling your dad for a second there,” He mutters. Then, because he knows her look was simply a reminder that she doesn’t like idle talk, he adds, “So, he didn’t make it?”

 

Amandla holds her breath, in the vain hope it will ease the pounding in her chest. She shakes her head. 

 

“How did it happen?” Uncle Jim asks, his hands busily working on the PADD in front of him, “What is a Major Hemorrhagic-”

 

“Major Hemorrhagic Cerebrovascular Insult,” Amandla says for him, “Colloquially known as a stroke. The temporary corrective surgery I performed to treat the effects of the virus was successful but approximately 3.2 days later, while he was in the care of my colleague as I gave a lecture, he began displaying signs of distress. Upon my return, I concluded three vessels in his cerebral arterial circle had weakened as a result of his disease and burst. The volume of blood compressed in his skull until he was unable to survive. My attempts to prevent his demise were a failure.”

 

There had to have been signs of hypovolemic shock. The thought is intrusive and unwanted but she cannot push it away. It would have been easily detected with a simple vitals check. The drop in blood pressure along with the onset of tachycardia would have been unmistakable. If she had been there, she would have seen it and known exactly what to it. If . . .

 

They had tried to save him, of course, but they weren’t her. He had been her responsibility.

 

Uncle Jim meets her gaze again. His eyes, which she usually interprets as being youthful and mischievous, are sad. He pulls off the reading glasses, which age have made a necessity, and rubs his sinuses before saying, “He was a good man. I’ll pay for his arrangements.”

 

She nods. She has known Uncle Jim all her life, long enough to know when he wishes to speak and be listened to, “Their actions that day indicate a high degree of selflessness and bravery.”

 

“It’s true. He was a brave man. A little dense but you couldn’t hold it against him for too long. He was too nice,” Uncle Jim says, smiling at a memory. Amandla nearly bites through her tongue before he adds, “They were all good people, especially her.”

 

“They were,” Amandla says. It had been twenty two years and she had only been six at the time but she could easily recall that. 

 

Uncle Jim cradles his chin in his hand, glancing up when she speaks. He does not need much persuasion, “Well, she was one of the best people I ever knew,” Uncle Jim says. He knows. He is staring at a space over the screen, his thoughts very distant from her. H stille talks about her often, especially when Amandla is near, and did even more before. Commander Spock found this irritating but Amandla never stopped him. He has told her thousands of stories about her mother and he has never told the same story twice. 

 

“Tell me,” Amandla says. 

 

“We were at a benefit at the Xindi Embassy and I was just blowing it. All those gestures and niceties ambassadors need, I couldn’t handle. I shouldn’t have been there. I was green as grass. They were not impressed. And your mother was off trying to make nice but all of the sudden I heard her - she was clear across the room remember - hollering, ‘That’s my Captain. He is worthy only of the utmost respect. Please refrain from belittling him in my presence.’”  Uncle Jim smiles briefly. His voice is a whisper when he repeats, “That’s my Captain.”

 

Amandla is silent. There is something here, something she cannot possibly understand. She had never been a captain and she has never had a crew like his. 

 

“They made her apologize and smooth things over,” Uncle Jim says, chuckling, “but later when we were alone, burying our troubles in some Andorian ale and ice cream, she told me, she hadn’t meant it, only did it because she had to. Then she went with me to all the mandated cultural trainings Starfleet laid on me. I had to earn it but when I did, she always had my back.” 

 

Uncle Jim looks at her, expectantly. She has absolutely nothing to say. 

 

“She would be so proud,” Uncle Jim says, “Of everything you do and everything you’re trying to do.”

 

Amandla feels her cheeks warming. She knows about his monument. Pasha and Hikaru had told her. Uncle Jim put up holographs and videos of her where everyone can see them, on the back of his chair. Everything from baby pictures to the recent article from Canada which dubbed her, “The Steadiest Hands on Earth”.

 

She disagrees with his assessment, which she can only assume is that he believes her to be selfless and humanitarian, but she holds her tongue. In many ways, she is almost identical to him: an eager explorer in a final frontier. 

 

Or perhaps what Imani said once is true and it is guilt which drives her, from what happened and what came after. For a period of time, she had forgotten her mother. It gave her pain so she had allowed her memories to become a black space because that was easier than the alternative. She had wondered why Uncle Jim resisted going to medbay even when he was gravely ill. She had thought it odd that Commander Spock kept dozens of old boxes in his room which she was not allowed to touch and spent his spare time listening to old communication tapes. She hadn’t thought about it too much though. 

 

“Nothing would make me sadder than you forgetting her. I promised myself you would at least have memories of her,” Uncle Jim says, interrupting her thoughts. 

 

Amandla glances at the clock. It is early morning. Here she is still, obsessed. No. It is not an obsession. An obsession implies selfishness and a general unwillingness to relent. This is a need.

 

“Do you,” Uncle Jim pauses, “Do you remember anything? Things I haven’t told you? Things you experienced first hand?”

 

She looks away from the clock but not towards him.

 

“You were young,” Uncle Jim says, “It’s alright if you don’t.” 

 

This is true. She had been young, small enough for Uncle Jim to carry. The captain, as Commander Spock often complained, was always quick to indulge her. She remembers the day vividly. Mama had been away and Commander Spock, with his inability to understand her tantrums, had grown weary of her presence. Uncle Jim had taken it upon himself to placate her. Mostly this had involved bubble blowing and massive quantities of nutritionally barren food. After a lunch of cookies and ice cream, he had carried her to a high deck so they could watch the landing party return. 

 

“Do you see them, Amandla?” Uncle Jim had asked, pointing to a dozen pods heading towards the landing dock to their right. 

 

Tired and irate due to their lunch and her need for a nap, she had been sucking her thumb. Upon seeing the shuttle with a bright red “8” on it, she had pulled her hand away from her mouth to smile. Commander Spock would have probably disapprove of the smile, of the thumb sucking, of the lunch, and the bubbles. But Uncle Jim had smiled widely back. 

 

She does remember. Uncle Jim is watching and waiting for some recollection from her but, perhaps she is too tired, or too angry still, or perhaps Uncle Jim was always right and she is exactly like Commander Spock: stubborn and emotionally constipated. In any event, Uncle Jim receives no response to his query. She does not insist on forcing herself to respond to other’s statement’s on her state of being.  

 

“You want to talk to your dad?” Uncle Jim ask and then before she can respond, he stands and walks away from the screen. Out of her view, she hears Uncle Jim saying, somewhere on the bridge out of view of the communicator, “No, put down the damn tricorder and talk to your kid.” Then, she is face to face with Commander Spock. 

 

“Commander,” Amandla says.

 

“Hello Amandla,” Commander Spock says. 

 

“How are you?” she asks, glancing at her program. Her test is still running but she has enlarged a sample of cells she wants to examine. She analyzes the cells, most of which are dead, idly waiting for his response. 

 

“I am well,” Commander Spock replies, “And yourself?”

 

“I am well, as well,” Amandla says. 

 

Silence follows. There is always silence between them. Decades ago, she might have wracked her brain for a conversation starter. Now, she simply lets the silence be. She hears Uncle Jim whispering something to Commander Spock. 

 

“How are you feeling about the Lieutenant's death?” Commander Spock asks suddenly.

 

She looks at him, not attempting to hid the scorn in her eyes. It is too late and she is too tired to act otherwise, “I am upset. I often find myself upset when my patient dies, despite my best efforts.”

 

“There are circumstances which we cannot control, regardless of our desire for events to be otherwise,” Commander Spock says, “It is not a statement on your skills.”

 

“I should not have left him,” she says, ferociously. Her mind is reliving the entire situation again, against her opposition, “He was still in recovery. I should have suspected something would happen, even when he seemed fine, I should have run more tests, or anything. At a certain point, my skills should be able to accommodate any circumstance. I was lazy.” 

 

“Ko-fu,” Commander Spock says, “Perhaps you should consider taking some time to rest. You appear fatigued.”

 

“I am just fine,” Amandla says. It is showing. She always knows when it is showing. She usually is able to hid it but sometimes she cannot, “I am happy. Just as you wanted when you left me with Bibi and Babu.”

 

Commander Spock is a good man. He must be. Uncle Jim thinks the universe of him and everyone who realizes she is his child, make comments which support this theory. She knows this, on a hypothetical level. She should acknowledge it, especially in their interaction

 

Her grandparents had not thought so, for their own reasons. Perhaps it was all compounded by the fact that they hated space for taking their oldest daughter and hated him by association. She could never know; there were too many factors to consider and she never had the strength to consider them all. All she knows is their words had taken their toll on her. 

 

The fissure had come a few months after she was first begun living in Kenya. Emboldened by their recent court victory, they had held a funeral for her mother. Commander Spock never forgave them. She remembers the singing, the drumming, the crying. She also remembers that when the mourning period was over, she had felt some relief, some closure. From that point on, she had always aligned herself with whatever her grandparents wished, even when it went against what Commander Spock desired. 

 

“I was never my intent for you to be happy,” She hears him says. She is not looking at him, “I wished for you to be content.”

 

That is when she sees it. A single dying nerve cell. It’s chromosomes retreating to separate sides of its body. She wonders if it is possibly a cells from another organ system, somehow mixed in but when she scans it, the wild impossibility is confirmed. A list of results appears on her computer. She clicks around. She glances at an enlarged image of the cells she imputed in the machine and feels her face go slack. A single, apt word falls from her lips, “Fuck.” 

 

“Amandla?” Commander Spock says.

 

“I have to go,” she says, turning off the communicator before he can respond. She busies herself with making notes, recording her findings, and taking detailed visuals. The cell only lives for 97.4 more minutes but in that time, it is the center of her world. She does not think of Commander Spock.  

 

.

.

.

 

Her colleague’s room is stifling as usual but today it is especially suffocating. T’Tal is in the corner, bent over a metal structure, welding. She does not appear to notice Amandla has entered the room and Amandla has some reservations about interrupting her while T’Tal has an open flame in hand. 

 

Amandla busies herself, safely away from her friend. From the refrigeration unit, she takes one of the two large containers of water and electrolyte additive that T’Tal is required to drink each day and pours two cups of the liquid. Then she finds the container of specialized meal substitute powder and prepares a dosage for her friend. By the time Amandla has finished preparing T’Tal’s breakfast, the Vulcan female has turned off her welding tool and turned, noticing her visitor for the first time. 

 

Neither woman verbally acknowledges the other. Instead, Amandla pokes around the office, examining T’Tal’s new inventions, while the other female takes off her protective gear and puts away her equipment. 

 

T’Tal had removed their uniformed scrubs to complete her project and for the upteenth time, Amanlda is astounded at how little adipose tissue her friend has. T’Tal is skeletal, the outline of her muscles and bones visible through her skin. Almost without thought, Amandla tips another half portion of meal substitute powder into T’Tal beverage. 

 

“Do you need any intravenous?” Amandla asks. 

 

“I am not experiencing any noticeable symptoms currently,” T’Tal replies, pulling on the dark violet scrubs each member of their laboratory is required to wear. Amandla holds the nutritional monitor up and T’Tal obediently tips up onto her toes so that Amandla can analyze T’Tal’s lymph and blood for nutritional deficiencies. T’Tal is diligent in her regimes and as usual there are none. 

 

T’Tal drinks her breakfast, watching Amandla over the brim of her cup. When she is finished, Amandla hands her proposal over. T’Tal reads it, sipping occasionally from her cup. 

 

T’Tal reviews the specifications twice. Amandla waits patiently at first but she soon finds herself drumming her fingers irately on the desk in front of them. T’Tal finally puts the PADD down in front her, pausing to take one more drink of water.

 

“Well?” Amandla asks, when T’Tal is silent for too long, “Is it feasible?”

 

“What objective do you hope these alterations will accomplish?” T’Tal asks. 

 

Amandla hesitates, “It’s a side project.”

 

“It would be unethical me to adjusted our radiation machine to deliver fractional dosage of 15 grays, particularly given your need for cellular level precision, without further information. At this dosage, permanent damage is almost an inevitability,” T’Tal retorted, “If done without thorough analysis, we might both face appropriate sanctions. This lab and you, specifically, have already been given an impressive degree of scientific independence that should not abused.”

 

“So it is feasible,” Amandla says. A wave of relief washes over her. For a brief moment, it seemed like she was asking T’Tal to alter the turn of the planet.

 

“Yes,” T’Tal says, “However, I will give no further assistance without discussion. You cannot afford to be sanctioned again.”

 

“I see,” Amandla says. Her thoughts debate furiously amongst each other. 

 

“You are not capable of making the alterations yourself,” T’Tal adds. 

 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Amandla says, avoiding her friend’s eyes. T’Tal had known Amandla since the beginning of their tertiary education, long enough to know her thought process. 

 

“What objective do you hope these alterations will accomplish?” T’Tal repeats.

 

“I have an idea for a therapy. It will sound . . . insane at first but please listen to my proposal in its entirety,” Amandla says. She pulls up several image on her PADD to show T’Tal, “I was performing an autopsy last night when I discovered a brain cell which had been infected by a virus and became mitotically active. I also found other brain cells in the sample which also looked like they had begun replicating before their demise as well.”

 

T’Tal’s mouth tightens slightly. Regeneration of most somatic cells is possible, as they are both aware, but only in cells which naturally replicated spontaneously.  No scientist has ever been able to coax mature neural tissue to regenerate. 

 

“Exactly,” Amandla says, knowing what T’Tal is thinking, “If we could locate the mechanism by which this virus is doing this, the possibilities would be groundbreaking. We could treat traumatic brain injuries, restore senses, and improve the outcome of so many diseases simply by influencing the damage tissue to replicate and controlling its growth.”

 

However, it appears Amandla did not predict all of her friend’s thoughts. T’Tal pauses, “You intend to use this finding to regenerate neural tissue?”

 

“Of course,” Amandla says. She mentally reviews what she had said. Her thoughts had grown so radical in the dawn hours, she had been forced to take a short nap in her office. She hopes she did not indicate said eccentricities to T’Tal.

 

“You were hesitant to tell me this,” T’Tal says, “Please explain.”

 

“I just didn’t want to overstate what I had,” Amandla assures her. T’Tal is watching her, unwavering. Amandla forces her face is slacken but it is too late. T’Tal has seen her tell. 

 

“There is a significant difference between replicating damaged neural tissue and replacing dead neural tissue,” T’Tal says. 

 

“And what difference is that?” Amandla asks. 

 

“I do not understand the distinction humans draw between brain death and other forms of life cessation. In my opinion, they are equivalent as both render an organism inert. A difference in treatment, as a result of that faulty distinction, is unethical.”

 

“I disagree,” Amandla says, “The brain is an organ. If a simple alteration can allow the organism to survive, such measures should be taken, in all events where possible. It is no different than a transplant or a round of antibiotics. It would be unethical to hold back treatment because of a disagreement over what constitutes death.”

 

“The brain is not a mere organ. It is the cradle of conscious thought and therefore a force of life. Sentient beings are transient; the universe is immutable. That is a universal certainty,” T’Tal says, “There are no instances where it is necessary for this fact to be disrupted.”

 

“No,” Amandla says, as a response to everything her friend is saying, “In the end, everyone just wants a little more time. I’m not aiming for immortality. Just a second chance for those whom I can provide it to, which seems perfectly fair. What is your issue with giving them that?” 

 

“Death is as indispensable as birth. It is not our place to toil in such arenas.”

 

“Nothing is set in stone,” Amandla says, “Nor should it be, if we have the tools to make it right.”

 

“You are too emotionally involved in this to understand what is right or wrong,” T’Tal says. Amandla pauses. For a moment, she thought T’Tal was merely being exhaustive but her comment proves what Amandla dreaded: she knows Amandla’s true motivation.

 

“And you are a fool if you think such a binary exists,” Amandla says, standing too fast. Realizing she is being rude, she adds, “I have to go prepare a lecture.”

 

“I will submit a report to the ethical board,” T’Tal says, “Thus, allowing a more neutral party to provide their input.”

 

“Alright,” Amandla says, walking out of her colleague’s office, “That’s fine.”

 

T’Tal’s office is a soft sanctuary. Outside of it, the lab is full and loud. Amandla dodges a pair of nurses rushing to prep for surgery, one of her therapists working with a patient, and three student interns looking over results from a patient’s test, before she reaches her station. Another intern is hovering over the microscope she was using. 

 

Her teeth clench down on her tongue to hold back her annoyance. She leans over the young woman’s shoulder, “See anything interesting?”

 

“Doctor! I’m so sorry!” the girl jumps back, almost knocking the equipment off the table, “I heard the rumor and I just wanted to see. Is this the omnicell?

 

“Omnicell? Is that what we’re calling it now?” Amandla says. Her annoyance is diminishing. She was once too curious for her own good as well. 

 

“The senior assistants are, ma’am,” the student replies, “I guess they think it’s catchy.”

 

“Catchy,” Amandla huffs. She presses her eyes to the scope before her. As with the other samples before, the cells are dead. The combination of viral biochemicals she noticed in the original sample have done nothing to the tested single cells, except kill them. She pulls the slide and tosses it on the table. It cracks but she currently can’t bring herself to care. Perhaps the dosages was wrong. She can review the exact amino acid sequence too. Also, she should check the machinery.

 

“It’s exciting,” the student, who is still behind her, says, “It’s exciting right? So many possibilities that just thinking about it makes me . . . excited. Maybe one day I’ll get to tell my grandkids I was part of this. We’re gonna change so many lives.”

 

“Well, I only care about one life currently,” Amandla says. She meant for this to be whispered but it was not softly said. The intern watches her nervously for a second before scampering off.

 

Amandla pokes around at her station for a few more minutes but not with any enthusiasm. Past the bodies around her, she sees T’Tal watching her. She quickly turns off the microscope and makes a retreat to her office.

 

.

.

.

 

“How is your new prescription working?” Imani asks. She is seated behind Amandla, out of sight, which is unsettling. However, this is one of the few rules Imani insists on. She’s an unspecified therapist and doesn’t adhere to any distinct school of thought, choosing instead to pick and choose what she wants to practice based on evidence and personal insight. And this seating arrangement is one of her most supported ideas. It enable her patients to forget Imani’s there. 

 

“I took one last night,” Amandla says, “I don’t think it worked.”

 

“I’ll find something else for you,” Imani promises, “I just got a new journal. One of the articles is on psychoactive drugs for alien hybrids. It sounds promising. On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your anxiety level during your episode last night?”

 

“Eight,” Amandla says, “The sedative helped a little but it was pretty consistently high. It came on fast.”

 

“What were you doing when it happened?”

 

“I was talking to Uncle Jim and Commander Spock,” Amandla says. This is not a lie, she assures herself. It’s a simple omission of the fact that she had taken the sedative 72 minutes earlier than the aforementioned event. Amandla waits, listening for Imani’s response. Sometimes her friend can recognize her minor intentional memory slips but now, she is writing, seemingly oblivious to the lapse in truth. 

 

“What did you talk about with your father?” Imani asks. She doesn’t even ask about Uncle Jim. She knows he is one of the few people Amandla loves unconditionally and is endlessly loyal to. 

 

“Nothing,” Amandla says, “I didn’t really want to talk to him. Uncle Jim made me.”

 

“Why is that?” 

 

“We have no relationship,” Amandla says. Imani knows about the custody battle her grandparents instigated when she was a child. She also knows Commander Spock had agreed to allows his only child to live with them year round, save for a week in the summer and a week in the winter, with no resistance on his part, under the guise that it was the most copacetic and ideal situation for all parties, “I don’t understand him.”

 

Amandla’s thoughts are racing again. Imani is not writing. The other woman has a sense for emotional distress in others and an ability to gain trust that Amandla envies. She also can make Amandla say things she thought she would never tell a soul. It is unfortunate. 

 

“My mother understood him,” Amandla says to fill the silence. Commander Spock’s eyes had always been calm when her mother had been near. That’s what Amandla remembers was once a fact. 

 

“Babyface told me about your findings,” Imani says, “Do you want to talk about that?”

 

Babyface is T’Tal. Amandla, Imani, and T’Tal had attended the same direct undergraduate to M.D./PhD. program. T’Tal, with her Vulcan heritage and health issues, had been tiny and prepubescent, hence the moniker. Amandla, who had been a precocious fourteen year old who had yet to go through the growth spurt which would added thirteen inches to her height in the span of eighteen months, was “Little Bit”. Imani had been an older student who had taken them both under her wing. Sometimes when Amandla was drunk and all her inhibitions were gone, she called Imani, “Mama”. 

 

Was this intentional, Amandla wonders, to remind her of the silly nickname she occasionally had for Imani?

 

“I think it would mean a something to a lot of people,” Amandla says. 

 

“How do you view your work?” Imani asks, “What objective do you hope to achieve?”

 

“I am uncertain. I have seen patients endures unfortunate accidents,” Amandla says, “I have often found such incidents unfair.”

 

Then, Imani commits a mortal sin,“What happened to you was unfair, was it not?”

 

“What are you referring to?” 

 

“Whom am I referring to, Amandla.” It is not a question. It is barely an  inquiry. It is a statement mean to draw out something. Amandla’s diversion did not work. 

 

They don’t talk about her mother in session. Amandla has been in and out of therapy with Imani for years. At this junction, they have an unspoken agreement to prevent the faux pas which ended their therapy each time in the past: Imani cannot push on a very particular subject. Yet, for all her emotional intelligence, Imani often makes this misstep and the result is always the same.

 

Amandla feels shame, a common emotion for therapy sessions. It had been all over her grandparents house, the ancestral home where every child in her family had at one time or another spent their summer, the safe haven where aunts and uncles who had fallen on hard times landed. She had seen it in the dozens of empty bottles she had found in the attic, a space she was expressly forbidden from treading, where the monsters she had expected were nowhere to be found. She had seen it in the books left behind on the cabinets, claiming to silence demon forever and bring clarity where there had once been chaos. She had seen it in the pictures, some posed and others spontaneously taken without their participant’s knowledges, where so many smiled but so few were able to bring the expression of joy to their eyes. 

 

She had told her grandparents once. Her grandmother understood, to a point, but she felt that life was a series of miseries to navigate and hadn’t understood what course of action to take. Her grandfather, who never experienced it, had told her the story of her ancestors at the Kakuma Refugee Camp. Then he added, “There is no one on earth you should trust more to care for you than you trust in yourself to care for you.” It was a perfect summary of the problem. 

 

It wasn’t looked down upon, as it once had been, but nothing could diminish the effects of her hubris. 

 

Amandla turns, her face unable to hold back a glare. Imani is unfazed, “I don’t think this the moment you are looking for.”

 

Perhaps she had romanticized her mother. She had been so young and her mother had seemed so heroic. When she was young, when every problems seemed unsurmountable and she was certain everyone was watching her fail, she wondered if it was excessivated by the absence. In the end, she knows one thing, and it is so simple and honest she has no choice but to begrudgingly accept it: before, when she had her mother, there had been silence and after mother was gone, the thoughts came, the ones who told her destructive things.

 

It did not require further insight. At least, not in Amandla’s opinion. 

 

Someone knocks on the door. Amandla quickly moves to stand behind Imani before she calls out, “Yes, come in.”

 

It’s Hasna, Amandla’s nurse and second assistant. Hasna nods at Imani and says, “Doctor Uhura, Chairman Meloni is here for his assessment.”

 

Amandla’s eyes glance at Imani who is watching her intently. She gives her friend a shrug and goes to collect her things, “We are done.”

 

“I have no appointments during lunch tomorrow,” Imani says, standing, “Come and eat with me if you want.”

 

“I can’t. I’m sorry,” Amandla says. They’ve gone too far again. Imani emails her after her session with the Chairman, asking when she wants to meet for the “article” they’re writing together but Amandla never responds. She is, once again, finished. 

 

Amandla returns to her cell and stays there for the rest of the day.

 

.

.

.

 

“Hi,” Amandla says. Her husband’s gaze through the screen of the communicator is piercing without even being severe and she feels the urge to bite her nails. “I’m sorry I didn’t call back quickly. I got caught up in all my appointments.”

 

Taka does not respond. He nods, eyes still fixed on hers.

 

Amandla contemplates lying or completely omitting the event of the previous night. In his face, they seems like weak excuses, unworthy of articulation or sympathy. Amandla is tired though and relents, “My patient died.”

 

He is quiet and for a moment, Amandla is certain he simply doesn’t care. Why would the living want to burden themselves with matters of the dead or dying? She is absent and that is what matters. Their daughter asks after her and he has nothing of substance to tell her. Maybe he is questioning everything about their lives together. They had both been young when they married and they have both changed. Perhaps he thinks she isn’t changing for the better and  -

 

“I’m sorry. I know how much that case meant to you,” Taka says, his expression unreadable, “How are you?”

 

“I’m fine,” Amandla lies, after a surprised pause. Taka gives her a look, persisting without saying a word, and she finds a quiver creeping into her throat as she continues, blurting each word as if she has no control over what she says, “He was from my mother’s crew. The life support machine broke and we were forced to do emergency surgery to keep him alive but when it was successful, I thought, this is it. I don’t have to be helpless anymore,” Amandla smiles at the recent memory, her mouth quivering, “We had a nice talk you know? Then I had to leave and I got this page and just as quickly, he was - ”

 

“You don’t need to tell me all the horrible details,” Taka says, “Just come home. We’ll have a nice dinner. You can get a good night’s rest. You need it,” he waits for her to respond and when she does not say anything promptly he adds, “I’m not angry, Amandla.”

 

“You’re not?” Amandla asks, her voice sounding desperate to her own ears. She is tired, though, too tired to care. 

 

He seems to hesitate, “I’m not.”

 

“Okay,” Amandla says, nodding, smiling, “I’ll close everything here and be home by six.” 

 

She is already beginning to put her things away when Taka speaks again, “But you know, there is something you could do to make me feel even better.” Amandla looks up and he winks, “And you know what that is.”

 

Amandla’s feels a tightness in her chest. She sighs, “Alright.”

 

She hurries over to the door, calling out to whoever is left in the lab who could interrupt, “I’m on an important call. Don’t bring me anything but emergencies.” Then she locks the door and slides back into her seat. 

 

Taka has Danae in his lap. When she sees her mother, Danae attempts to grab the screen and touch Amandla. When Taka holds her back, Danae growls, annoyed. Amandla smiles and points at the large flamingo balloon crown on her daughter’s head, “Jambo, Danae. I like your hat.”

 

Danae scowls, not mincing words, “You didn’t see the flamingos at the reserve today, Mama.”

 

“I know. I’m sorry. I had to work,” Amandla says. Her excuses still feel weak, especially when said to that sweet face. 

 

“Mommy wants to make it up to you,” Taka says. This entire thing is his idea. He thinks Danae is too young to appreciate a verbal apology and the best way to make her understand someone else is sorry is to make her happy again. 

 

“Happy Dance!” Danae says, clapping in anticipation.

 

“What was that? What did you say there?” Amandla tries, “Happenstance? I’m not sure what that means.”

 

“Quit stalling,” Taka says, reaching over to turn on the music. 

 

It does not bear describing, what the happy dance entails. By the end, Taka is biting his lip so hard, it is turning white, and Danae is smiling, the most joyful expression Amandla can imagine. 

 

It is embarrassing and more than a little masochistic but she tolerates it for one simple reason. This is who she wants Danae to know. Not the scientist, not the surgeon. Amandle wants Danae to know her mother, the faulty being that loves her daughter and will perform a silly dance if that makes her only child happy. 

 

“I’ll be home in an hour,” Amandla promises, slightly out of breath. And she will be. She will not even look at the cell.

 

“Yes,” Taka says, his voice strained, before disconnecting.


	3. Chapter 3

Nyota watches the clock out of the corner of her eye. Normally, she would think this kind of behavior was rude. Today, is not like most days though. She finished her last exam five hours ago. Once she finishes up with Commander Spock, she’s going out with Gaila to celebrate the end of their third year at Starfleet. Then tomorrow, she will be headed back home, to see her family whom she’s been sick missing.

The clock ticks as it hits the top of the hour. Nyota stands up so quickly the desk is shoved forward, rudely scraping across the floor. Commander Spock looks up from his work at the sound. She smiles sheepishly,“Sorry.”

He does not respond to her apology, nor he does he look her in the eye. The latter part bothers her more, even though she knows doing otherwise would go against his customs. She’s seen him look others in the eye. Why doesn’t he look her in the eye too? Nyota pushes her hair behind her ears, because it’s something to do. She opens her mouth. She knew she should have written down what she wanted to say! Gaila had teased her mercilessly though. Now here she was, trying to find the words, while attempting to not get flustered.

She doesn’t even think he’s so extremely handsome that being flustered is necessary. Really. She doesn’t. Really.

Commander Spock looks up from his report, “Is there something you require from me, Cadet Uhura?”

Nyota feels a strong urge to chew on her nails, a nasty habit that rears its head every time she feels nervous. She thinks about him a lot. He represents everything she wants. He’s brilliant, a noted scholar on several planets with an impressive track record in the fleet, and all while being well-published and young enough to do even more.   

She also genuinely likes him. He’s wickedly funny, which is hard to see at first but impossible to ignore once acknowledged. Dedicated too, a trait she reveres. His lectures, despite the fact that it’s his first year teaching, are always organized and concisely delivered. He has longer office hours than any other professor she’s had and he never sends her away when she attends - and she attends often - hoping for a discussion. He even grades fast. His work in linguistics and others sciences is so detailed and thorough, that few find fault with it and most aspire to meet his level of scientific integrity.

There is more, of course, but she must keep that to herself.

Nyota bits her tongue. She talks about him so much Gaila has set ground rules about how often she can mention him. If she were talking to Gaila, this would be much easier. Having to stand in front of him, looking into those thoughtful, warm eyes -

Shit. Now she’s just staring. He’s waiting.

“I,” Nyota says, pausing for absolutely no reason, “I have enjoyed working with you this year.” Then, as if he needs reminding how he knows her, she adds, “As your student and as your teacher’s aide.”

Her voice cracks on the last words, to add insult to injury.

To makes matters worse, she has said almost nothing she wanted to say.

It seems like an eternity before he responds but when he answers, his tone is even, “I have enjoyed my role as your mentor. Based on the skills and work ethic I have noticed, I am confident you will experience substantial accomplishments at the Academy and in your career. It has been a pleasure.”

He bows deeply and she wants deeply to step on her own foot to hold back her smile. She barely manages a polite bow in response.

Her words get tangled in her mouth and the only one that gets out is, “Fantastic.” She shakes her head as if this will makes her thoughts coherent enough to add to this awful adjective, which doesn’t even begin to cover how she feels in that moment. Finally, because her mouth is open she manages, “See ya.”

She crams her things into her bag. She is so dumb. Unbelievably dumb. Unconscionably dumb.

She drops several PADDs on the floor and he kneels to pick them up. Nyota takes them, and for one brief moment, he is standing before her and she knows this is her last chance to tell him, that she thinks he’s extraordinary, that working with him had been one of the best experiences she’s ever had and she’s never been more motivated, challenged, and invested, and if he’d have her, she wants to see him again. In any capacity really.

Instead, she smiles stupidly and says, “Okay.”

“Cadet,” Commander Spock says. She turns, gnawing on her thumb before she jerks her hand away from her mouth. He is reaching into his drawer. Then he is handing her a perfectly wrapped rectangular present.

It makes her embarrassingly happy. She is already planning on what she’s going to tell Gaila. She tries to unwrap it maturely but there are several pieces of paper on his desk by the time she’s done.

It is a book. A thin, leather bound novel with a gilded calligraphy title on its front. She rubs her fingers across the soft surface and resists the urge to hold it up to her nose.  _ The Prophet _ by Kahlil Gibran.

“It is a personal favorite. My mother insisted I read it as a child. It was a frequent topic of discussion,” Commander Spock tells her, “There is also a fascinating history surrounding its distribution.”

She’s read it. Twice. It’s a favorite for her too. Truthfully, she might start reading it a third time when she’s out in the hall and his office door has closed.

“Thank you, Commander,” Nyota says, holding the book close to her chest. She adores printed word and she’s almost embarrassed with herself by how happy she is that he is giving her a gift, “I will cherish this.”

She smiles at him because she wants to. He is not unnerved by the gesture. In fact, she swear it looks like he’s smiling back with his eyes. Then she is turning to leave, for good this time, when he says.

“Perhaps we could discuss it on some occasion in the near future?”

.

.

.

She thumbs through the pages when she is waiting for the transporter home. That’s when she finds it: the note his mother wrote to him on the final page. It’s fairly benign yet when she sees the words of love and affection, she feels almost intrusive. Had he known this message was here?  Of course he hadn’t. He wouldn’t have give it to her if he had. Should she return it? He might ask why. He might be embarrassed. She forces herself not to read it. She covers it with a bookmark.

.

.

.

When Kamau sees the book in her hands as she lays on her bed in her room in Kenya, her brother snorts, “Again?”

But not Makena. Her sister sits behind her, peeking over her shoulder to read with her. After a few quiet moments, Makena says, “I didn’t know you had a paper copy of that book.”

“I didn’t. It was a gift,” Nyota says. She doesn’t give any more information. Makena would piece it all together in a second if she knew more.

They read together in silence for a few more minutes before their mother calls them down to eat dinner. Nyota hasn’t had a moment to herself since she arrived home. Her brother has been at school and her sister has been off planet on a project and the family hasn’t been together for months. When Makena leaves to set the table, Nyota quickly sends a message to Commander Spock.

_ Hello Commander, _

_ I hope this message finds you well. I have arrived safely at my parent’s home in Nairobi. _

_ Thank you for the book. I’ve already read it but I have found no issue in reading it again. Good literature gives one words for the indescribable. _

_ You give but little when you give of your possessions. _

_ It is when you give of yourself that you truly give. _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Nyota _

The last part she wrote on impulse. It is a quote from the book. He asked her if she wanted to discuss it. This is, by the barest of definitions, innocent discussion. She wants to write more but she feels like she is about to pass an unspoken boundary. She holds her breath as she sends it, running down the steps to share a meal with her family so she doesn’t have to think about it again.

.

.

.

Her family plays cards after dinner. Thirteen card rummy. Nyota hates the game but it’s her mother’s favorite. Kamau cheats. Baba still wins by several points.

Halfway through, she hears the chime of her PADD. Someone sent her a message. She doesn’t answer. Baba would be angry if she did. She has an inkling of hope for who the sender could be but she chastises herself.

However, to her adulation, the message is from Commander Spock.

_ Cadet Uhura, _

_ I am gratified to learn you reached your destination safely. I will be spending our academic break at the Starfleet campus. My work requires silence and a lack of chaos I do not think I will experience at my family home. My mother, you must understand, is attempting to raise a litter of juvenile sehlats, possibly, as my aunt is fond of telling me, as a replacement for myself. _

_ I do, however, miss your companionship. Please reply with your favorite chapter of the book with an explanation as to why it is superlative to the rest. I will submit a rebuttal. _

**I do, however, miss your companionship.** Nyota’s heart almost stops.

She doesn’t even like him. Really. She doesn’t.

.

.

.

It’s all very innocent at first.

Her favorite passage is ‘On Work.’

**_Always you have been told that work is a curse and labour a misfortune._ **

_ But I say to you that when you work you fulfil a part of earth's furthest dream, assigned to you when that dream was born, _

_ And in keeping yourself with labour you are in truth loving life, _

_ And to love life through labour is to be intimate with life's inmost secret. . . _

**_Work is love made visible._ **

_ And if you cannot work with love but only with distaste, it is better that you should leave your work and sit at the gate of the temple and take alms of those who work with joy. _

_ For if you bake bread with indifference, you bake a bitter bread that feeds but half man's hunger. _

_ And if you grudge the crushing of the grapes, your grudge distils a poison in the wine. _

_ And if you sing though as angels, and love not the singing, you muffle man's ears to the voices of the day and the voices of the night. _

She only means to tell him her love for the words are a testament to her dedication to follow her passion. That is what she means to tell him.

Instead she writes a ballad, describing her parent’s love for hard work. Not hard work orientated towards a goal but hard work meant to strain the mind and burden the soul and in the end, prove strength of character. She tells him about how determined they were, how driven they were, how any means were necessary, even to the point that their children had practically raised themselves. She doesn’t despise them for their choices, of course. It’s much too late for that. Sometimes, however, she resents that when the time came to choose between what they desired and what their children needed, the weight always fell toward their own gains.

She tells him about her own struggles, to adhere to her parent’s wishes and lifestyle and her deep despair when she realized everything about it went against something deeply personal about her. She had no qualms about hard work but she desired work that made her excited, inspired. Only when she went against their hopes for her was she happy. However, after she had, it devastated them to the point where they never wished to speak about her schooling or work, no matter how many years past.   

Then, in an exciting and terrifying moment, she tells him about how worthwhile it all is. She could prove herself to them. She knew she could. She would present them with so many medals, so many distinctions, so many achievements that one day they would see her ends were the same as there and they would finally look on her decision as meaningful, even by their standards.

She does not mean for it to be so intimate. She agonizes over the decision of whether to send it or not. In the end, she does, after reviewing it a thousand times, with the eyes of a school administrator, a future starship captain, and an older version of herself. Then, because she wants for him to know her, truly know her, she sends it.

It’s all very innocent, you see.

 

_. _

_. _

_. _

His response is very innocent too. His favorite passage is, ‘On Teaching’.

_ No man can reveal to you aught but that which already lies half asleep in the dawning of your knowledge. _

_ The teacher who walks in the shadow of the temple, among his followers, gives not of his wisdom but rather of his faith and his lovingness. _

_ If he is indeed wise he does not bid you enter the house of his wisdom, but rather leads you to the threshold of your own mind. _

_ The astronomer may speak to you of his understanding of space, but he cannot give you his understanding. _

_ The musician may sing to you of the rhythm which is in all space, but he cannot give you the ear which arrests the rhythm, nor the voice that echoes it. _

_ And he who is versed in the science of numbers can tell of the regions of weight and measure, but he cannot conduct you thither. _

_ For the vision of one man lends not its wings to another man. _

_ And even as each one of you stands alone in God’s knowledge, so must each one of you be alone in his knowledge of God and in his understanding of the earth. _

She understands why. The words are him. Self-driven. He does not demand anything from his students. He offers his vast knowledge at their disposal but in the end, he is a guide, not a shepherd. The work students put into the class is directly reflected in their grade..

She writes back, telling him as much. Then Kamau wants to go swimming. When she returns, there is no response and this bring her both relief and sadness.

.

.

.

The next day her parents and brother go for a hike. Makena, who had spent the last several months with early mornings and late nights doing work for her research project, is more keen on sleeping until noon. Nyota, who’s keen on finishing her book, offers to stay with her.

Makena makes good on her promise. Nyota prepares, eats, and cleans up a morning meal but her sister does not make an appearance. She is thumbing idly when she receives a call on her communicator. An icy shock passes through her when she sees it’s from Commander Spock.

She drops the communicator on the table and runs to the bathroom. Her hair is fine but she doesn’t have a trace of make-up on and she is still wearing her ‘Starfleet Academy Chorale Ensemble’ shirt which she wore to sleep. She runs to the door, stops, returns to the mirror, freezes, and then makes a decision. She doesn’t have the Commander’s number. She must pick up. It could have something to do with the student’s grades.

Nyota flings herself into her chair, adjusts the screen so he can’t see what she’s wearing, brushes her hair back, and answers. When her face fills the screen, she makes a noise. When she moved the screen, she put it at such an angle that he can see directly up her nose. She fixes it but when he appears a moment later, she can’t be sure he didn’t see.

“Hello Commander,” Nyota says. Her voice is deep and gravelly from sleep and the words sound strange. She forcefully clears her throat, “Hello.”

“Hello Cadet Uhura. My apologies. Did I wake you?” the Commander asks.

“No, I’m fine,” Nyota says. Her shirt looks dirty and hideous on the screen and she casually wraps an arm around herself to hide her shame before deciding this is even more awkward and laying her hand calmly on the table.

He looks perfect, naturally. Dignified. Fully dressed and ready to face the world.

“My apologies,” Commander Spock says, “I have finished making my marks on the final exams and I simply wanted to be the first to congratulate you. You have received the highest grade in your linguistics unit. No other students has attains such a degree of mastery in over fifty six years.”

Nyota blinks, “I’m sorry. Could you repeat that?”

“You have received the highest score on Xenolinguistic 201, when compared to cohorts of the past fifty-six years.”

“You’re talking about me,” Nyota says, still in disbelief. It’s not the first time she’s been top of the class. Not by a long shot. She just never expected to be the top of his class, the professor everyone warned other students about, let alone with the highest score seen in decades. He doesn’t give grades. He gives marks that people earn. He thinks she earned this grade. All of this, coming from him, the one she adores so much . . .

She allows the words to settle and in the next second she is torn between sitting calmly and running to wake up Makena and share the news. She chooses to remain calm.

“I am,” Commander Spock says. No doubt he is questioning the merits of giving her such a high score now, “You are an extraordinary student. Your score is indicative of an unparalleled ability to identify sonic anomalies in subspace transmissions tests. I would praise your natural abilities but that would be ignoring your obvious dedication and perseverance. So, I will do as humans do, and simply say, ‘Good work.”

“Thank you, Commander,” Nyota says.

“It was your doing Cadet. Praise your work, not my teaching,” Commander Spock replies.

“No, Commander. You were an excellent mentor. You have been invaluable to me,” Nyota says. There they are. The words which escaped her in his office.

“Please enjoy the rest of your break, Cadet,” Commander Spock says.

“Wait,” Nyota says. Commander Spock stops. The sight of his eyes makes her stutter, “What part are you on?”

“I do not understand the question, Cadet.”

“What part of the book are you currently reading?” Nyota clarifies.

Spock’s eyes pierce through her, making her spine tingle, “I have an eidetic memory, Cadet. I am not currently reading the book. I need only recall.”

“Really?” Nyota says, “Half the joy of literature is reading it. Not reading it ever again is like going to an art museum and closing your eyes.”

He tilts his head, opening his mouth to respond but even though Nyota doesn’t know how to explain it, she wants to show him.

“Take the passage On Clothing’,” Nyota says, picking up the book, “Can I read it to you?”

“Yes,” Commander Spock says. He sounds hesitant but the moment is making Nyota’s heart race and she read, stumbling on words in her excitement before dictating properly.

_ Your clothes conceal much of your beauty, yet they hide not the unbeautiful. _

_ And though you seek in garments the freedom of privacy you may find in them a harness and a chain. _

_ Would that you could meet the sun and the wind with more of your skin and less of your raiment, _

_ For the breath of life is in the sunlight and the hand of life is in the wind. _

_ Some of you say, "It is the north wind who has woven the clothes to wear." _

_ But shame was his loom, and the softening of the sinews was his thread. _

_ And when his work was done he laughed in the forest. _

_ Forget not that modesty is for a shield against the eye of the unclean. _

_ And when the unclean shall be no more, what were modesty but a fetter and a fouling of the mind? _

Before she can speak the last sentence, he interrupts her, his voice hoarse, “And forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair.”

There is something in the way he speaks, something Nyota doesn’t dare try to describe. Unfortunately words are her passion and she does against her own will. He speaks like he couldn’t believe she would choose that passage. As if she had intruded where he either didn’t want her or didn’t dare have her. Almost as if he envies the sun and the wind and the earth.

He has his eyes closed, has forced his breathing to slow. Nyota doesn’t know what to do with herself. She cannot speak as that would interrupt him. She cannot leave as that would be rude.

Finally he does open his eyes. He looks right at her, his gaze unwavering as he openly stares at her, his breath still hindered. Neither can speak and neither can look away.

“Nyota!”

Nyota jumps, her knee knocking against the table.  She pushes the chair over as she stands, somehow manages to turn off the communicator, and rushes into the hall where her sister is coming down the stairs.

“Is there tea?” Makena asks, yawning widely.

“Yes. I mean no. Uhm,” Nyota’s hand fumble but that fails to bring words to her lips, “There’s. You know.”

“Why are you acting stupid?” Makana asks, “Who were you talking to?”

“I’ll make you tea,” Nyota says, grabbing Makena’s arm and pulling her back into the kitchen too forcefully. She shoves Makena into a chair, apologizes profusely for doing so, and begins loudly boiling water.

“What’s wrong with you?” Makena asks.

Nyota smiles at her, and if the expression looks half as rattled as she feels, it is a terrifying expression indeed, “No one. Do you want honey?”

.

.

.

Later, he sends a message. For hours she can’t bear to read it. She doesn’t want to hear it was a mistake. She doesn’t want to know he regrets it. She doesn’t want an affirmation that she was mistaken and he feels nothing for her.

Finally, when everyone else is in bed and she can’t fall asleep and the ceiling still fails to answer her silent questions, she reads it. It’s is a passage, “Of Reason and Passion”. There is no message.

_ Your soul is oftentimes a battlefield, upon which your reason and your judgment wage war against passion and your appetite. _

_ Would that I could be the peacemaker in your soul, that I might turn the discord and the rivalry of your elements into oneness and melody. _

_ But how shall I, unless you yourselves be also the peacemakers, nay, the lovers of all your elements? _

_ Your reason and your passion are the rudder and the sails of your seafaring soul. _

_ If either your sails or our rudder be broken, you can but toss and drift, or else be held at a standstill in mid-seas. _

_ For reason, ruling alone, is a force confining; and passion, unattended, is a flame that burns to its own destruction. _

_ Therefore let your soul exalt your reason to the height of passion; that it may sing; _

_ And let it direct your passion with reason, that your passion may live through its own daily resurrection, and like the phoenix rise above its own ashes. _

_ I would have you consider your judgment and your appetite even as you would two loved guests in your house. _

_ Surely you would not honour one guest above the other; for he who is more mindful of one loses the love and the faith of both. _

_ Among the hills, when you sit in the cool shade of the white poplars, sharing the peace and serenity of distant fields and meadows - then let your heart say in silence, "God rests in reason." _

_ And when the storm comes, and the mighty wind shakes the forest, and thunder and lightning proclaim the majesty of the sky, - then let your heart say in awe, "God moves in passion." _

_ And since you are a breath In God's sphere, and a leaf in God's forest, you too should rest in reason and move in passion. _

.

.

.

“Who is he, Nyota?” Makena asks.

“Who’s who?” Nyota asks. She is braiding her younger sister’s hair, a busy task which doesn’t allow her to think.

“The man you are in love with,” Makena says. Nyota’s hands freeze and Makena pulls away until her hair is out of Nyota’s grasp, turning to face her older sister, “Don’t deny it. I know.”

“You’re silly,” Nyota says, “You know that? You’re - ”

“That can be classified as denial,” Makena says.

Nyota’s mouth opens and closes. She feels her eyes burn. When she speaks, her voice cracks, “I shouldn’t.”

“But you do,” Makena says.

Nyota doesn’t look at her. She studies the design on the carpet, her mind racing. Makena pats her knees before reaching out to pick up the book. Both sisters have read it but Makena still has to flip through the pages to find the right words.

“Your hearts know in silence the secrets of the days and the nights,” Makena reads as she changing pages, “Be in your pleasures like the flowers and the bees.”

“I don’t want to talk about it. It’s stupid. Very, very stupid,” Nyota says, scoffing, “I’m never going to be able to look at that book the same way again. Just let it go, okay?”

 

Makena nodds but Nyota can’t help but notice a glimmer in her sister’s eyes.

That night, at dinner, Makena surprises both her parents and her sister by saying, “I want to go to the city tomorrow.”

“What?” Baba says.

“Alone?” Mama says, “No. You don’t need to. No.”

“No,” Baba adds.

“But one of the professors from my university is giving a lecture. I want to do research with him. This would be a good time to introduce myself,” Makena insists, “Please? It would be so good for my career.”

Mama and Baba look at one another. Mama says, “Kamau has to go with you.”

“Huh?” Kamau says.

“Yeah,” Makena says, eyes widening, “The lecture isn’t until 7 but we can go shopping beforehand. We can take the train at 9, arrives at 10:30. That gives us about eight hours or so to looks at shoes, jewelry, clothes - ”

“Mama! It’s my break too! Make Nyota go,” Kamau whines.

Makena has a look in her eyes. Nyota has seen the look before and knows there is no point resisting. Nyota holds her breath as she quickly adds, “I don’t mind.”

.

.

.

“You know Mama and Baba thought you meant Nairobi,” Nyota says, the next day as they are on their way to San Francisco.

“I was unspecific,” Makena concludes.

.

.

.

According to the faculty locator, he is in the library. She goes there and when she arrives she hears him calling out from somewhere in the vast expanse of the library. He hears her too.

“Hello Michael. Could you please provide me with the access code for the translation programs? Dr. Bertinson changes it on a tri-monthly basis and he failed to provide it to me after he altered it yesterday.”

She doesn’t respond. For a moment, she considers leaving. Makena went to Berkley, to visit a friend studying at Cal but she will understand and return if need be.

“Michael? Please speak so I may ascertain your location.”

“It’s not Michael,” Nyota whispers before raising her voice to say, “It’s Nyota.”

She hears his footsteps echoing through the library but she cannot tell where they are coming from. She looks for him but can’t see him. Then, suddenly, she is instinctively aware he is behind her. She wraps her arms around herself and turns to face him.

“I’m sorry,” Nyota blurts, her panic getting the best of her, “I don’t even know what I’m doing here. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything.”

She is confused. She feels deep affection, painful guilt, intense desire, tenderness, and a miracle of emotions she doesn’t want but can’t ignore.

“Please do not leave,” Commander Spock says before she can escape.

“This is inappropriate,” Nyota says.

“Perhaps,” Commander Spock concedes.

“There could be consequences to this,” Nyota adds.

“Most probable,” Commander Spock says.

“We shouldn’t even be here,” Nyota concludes.

“I agree,” Commander Spock says.

“Then how did this happen?” Nyota says. He steps closer, a modest movement which leaves several feet of space between them but still makes her chest tighten, “I had convinced myself I didn’t even like you. You gave me no indication for so long and now - How long have you even felt like this?”

“I noticed your symmetrical features on the first day of class when you came forward to discuss the day’s lesson. It was stimulating but it was of no substance to me. However, on February 27 of this year, one of your classmates made a comment that my grading rubric was unfair and you argued that it was not difficult but challenging. The statements you made that followed gave evidence to my prior assumption that you were a person of substance. You have a profound confidence and belief in your own character and talents. It was intriguing and I could not forget.”

“We were in close proximity for the four months which followed. I was your student. I was your assistant,” Nyota says, “I would never have known if you hadn’t given me the book.”

“I contemplated not giving you that gift but now that I have made my confession, I have no regret,” Commander Spock says.

“You don’t?” Nyota says, “Are you sure?”

“I am.”

“Can you say it?” Nyota asks. She swears her heart is about to stop but she must proceed, “Please?”

He takes another step, a large step, which closes the distance between them. He is close enough now that she can feel the warmth of his body. “I am very much enamored with you Nyota.”

Then, she is moving towards him, throwing her arms around his neck, kissing his face: his smooth cheeks, his beautiful jaw, his handsome forehead, and his perfect, perfect mouth. When he reaches around her to pull her close, her legs go weak and he must hold her tightly.

“I adore your diligence,” Nyota tells him, leaning onto her toes so she can kiss his eyebrows, fulfilling a desire which has been swelling inside her for months, “and the way you raise your eyebrows every time something interest you.”

“I find the manner in which you hold yourself equally assured in front of those of similar standing and those of seniority to be very rousing. I enjoy watching you advocate for yourself. I profoundly enjoy the complexity and innovation of your thoughts when we have discussions,” Spock says.  He gently holds her face still and kisses her deeply on the mouth, before adding, “You have many physical and personal traits I admired. I could go into great detail if you desired such.”

Nyota laughs and leans her head against his shoulder. He holds her steady against himself and she sighs. She turns whispering the chapter that reminded her of him the most:

_ When love beckons to you follow him, _

_ Though his ways are hard and steep. _

_ And when his wings enfold you yield to him, _

_ Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you. _

_ And when he speaks to you believe in him, _

_ Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden. _

_ For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. _

_ Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning. _

He is pressing his lips to her crown when they both hear his name being called from somewhere in the library. It is the Michael he was waiting for earlier. Commander Spock pushes her away gently.

“Please wait in my office,” he tells her in a low voice, “I do not have any appointments this afternoon and I wish to spend time with you.”

She kisses his hand and grudgingly leaves. In the hall, she pauses to touch her face. It is strangely tangible, hot and flushed under her fingers. Her smile is almost painful. She opens her communicator, her feet taking her to the Commander’s office on memory alone. She must warn Makena they will be late returning home. After she and the Commander discuss things, she has several more thoughts she wants to explore with him. 


	4. Chapter 4

As far as she can tell, they are flowers.

The plants have a thick dark purple stock which is covered in large jet-black thorns, which are dripping in a clear aquamarine fluid. At the tops are wispy, emerald green buds, which look more like tiny shrubs than actual petals. Nyota reaches out to pull the vase of flower closer and she swears the entire plant shrivels into itself like a shy child.

There many vases in the room. Twelve on the table, six on her bedstand, and more than she had time to count on the floor. No one had told her they were coming. She had returned from session to find her room had been invaded by the strange plants.

Nyota inspects the vases. They are flat, octagonal, and wide, made from a grey metal that is warm to her touch. The roots of each plant are submerged in what looks like water but smells exactly like leather and feels sticky and thick like jelly.

Amongst each plant, there is a digital card placed at the top of a stick, which flashes bright, neon letters randomly. The characters are loose and curly, much like a decoration on a rug. The letters fly across the screen helter skelter but she cannot help but think there is a pattern to them.

The colorful things, whatever they may be, are making her head ache. They are bright and gaudy and menacing all at the same time and suddenly, without true reason, she wants them out of her room.

She remember in that moment: another day, one with a red sky and an oppressively hot sun which bears down upon her. The ground underneath her feet is wet, smells dank and slightly metallic. In front of her, flames leap up as men and women dressed in heavy safety suits throw items on a fire. She watches as they burn bedding, clothes, furniture, toys, books, pictures, and other things that make a home. It all has to go. It’s for the best, she thinks. Her head begins to pound.

Nyota throws open her door, escaping into the hallway. The air is hot, suffocating as she tries to catch her breath. The world spins, colors blurring in her vision until she trips on her own feet and stumbles to the floor. She lands hard on her knees, the force of the impact knocking the air from her lungs.

She freezes, staring at the ground which is mercifully solid. Her fingers grip the wood flooring but she feels nothing. She blinks and she sees the fire and destruction. She breathes and she smells blood and smoke.

Something cool and soft grazes against her cheek. Nyota turns, still on the brinck of panic, to see an older woman is kneeling behind her, watching with calm brown eyes and speaking to her in a warm tone.

Nyota forces herself to inhale and exhale, willing herself to focus on the woman’s voice and nothing else. “What did you say?” Nyota manages to mutter, “I couldn’t hear you.”

“I asked if you were alright,” the woman says. She moves her hand from Nyota’s cheek to entangle their fingers. The woman smiles and when she speaks again, Nyota can hear her with new clarity, “Would you believe me if I told you that you were safe? You are safe, my darling dear. No harm will come to you so long as I am here.”

Nyota does not respond but grips the woman’s hand just a bit tighter, her attention beginning to move away from the woman’s voice to notice other details. There is jazz music being played in one of the rooms down the hall. There is a spider web in the highest corner of the nearby window. The older woman is wearing purple sneakers.

The woman continues talking, “Can you take deep breathes for me? Inhale, hold the air in your lungs, feel your chest expand, exhale fully. Good. Now take another breath.”

Nyota obeys the instruction. Her chest aches but her heart begins to slow. Nyota smells the oil which was used to polish the floor and sees the black ring which adorns the woman’s hand and the silver ribbon that is plaited into the woman’s gray hair.

“Shall we count too? That always makes me feel better when I am nervous. Backward from 100? Say the numbers with me. One hundred, ninety nine, ninety eight, ninety seven . . . ”

They count all the way to zero, kneeling in the empty hallway, clasping hands as if they are anything but strangers.

“How do you feel now?” The woman asks when they have finished.

“Better,” Nyota says. It is true. She takes notice of the sunlight filtering through the window of the institute which has become her home. She hears the noise of other patients as they go to have their lunch in the dining room below. This is real. This, she understands.

Nyota feels the woman letting go of her hand. The woman smiles, sheepish, “My apologies. I shouldn’t have touched you without asking.”

“That’s alright,” Nyota says, standing up.

The woman stands up too. She tosses a thick braid of hair over her shoulder, watching Nyota with brown eyes and a gaze that seems strangely affectionate.

“Thank you,” Nyota says, “I’m Uhura.”

The woman nods, “I’m Dr. Kimathi.”

“Dr. Kimathi,” Nyota says. The name seems familiar yet she cannot say where she has heard it before. “Have we met before?”

The woman shakes her head, a sly grin crossing her mouth. She shrugs before saying, “Perhaps.”

Nyota thinks about it for a moment. Then she sees the scar on Dr. Kimathi’s wrist and says, “Oh! You held my hand.”

It is her first new memory, the first made at the institute. She was coming out of surgery. Her muscles were dense and unyielding and her mind was on another planet. There had been three staff members standing over her: one monitoring her vitals, another giving directions, and the third, holding her hand and watching her, eyes bright as she had smiled at Nyota.

Dr. Kimathi’s grin deepens, “Yes. I still supervise procedures and I like to show the patients they have someone there for them.”

“Yes,” Nyota says, “I did. I did appreciate your presence.”

“I’m glad,” Dr. Kimathi says. She fists her left hand, the very same appendage which had touched Nyota and asks, “Are you going to lunch?”

“I will,” Nyota says.

“Good,” Dr. Kimathi says, “It pleases me to see you well, Uhura.”

Dr. Kimathi smiles one last time at Nyota before walking away. She turns the corner, glancing back to see Nyota is still watching for her. Just before she vanishes from sight, Nyota sees Dr. Kimathi grin to herself.

.  
.  
.

Every night just before bed, she makes record of things she has recalled during the day, lest she forget something as she sleeps.

The first several pages describe weak sensations and distant emotions. Softness. Protection. Warmth. Beauty. Green. Novelty. Vibrancy. Tenderness. Cooing. Delight. Helplessness. Loyalty. Worry. Golden. Obedience. Clumsiness. Silliness. Gratitiude. Shyness. Pride. Grumpiness. Expanse. Roughness. Scrawniness. Melodies. Crying. Playing. Spiciness. Substance. Burning. Cuddling. Humidity. Abundance.

The pages which follow are more clear, more distinct. What nights had smelled like in Kenya when she was a child looking for insects to study. How stiff and uncomfortable her school uniform had felt the first time she had worn it on her first day of preschool. The taste of her grandmother’s homemade naan. Her brother and sister giggling in the bunk underneath her at their family vacation home. The way her mother’s nose crinkled when she laughed and the inevitable twinkle which came to her father’s eyes when he saw this.

Finally, there are facts. She took dance and vocal lessons for fifteen and thirteen years respectively when she was a child. She had never broken a bone. Her brother had the same birthday as their father and her sister’s was five feet, eight inches tall, the same height as their mother. She had eight first cousins. She has only ever received A grades in school. She was named after her father’s childhood friend. She had her first kiss when she was fifteen. Her favorite color was purple. She had superstitions about the number six.

In the latest memory she can recall, she is twenty two years old, sitting by a window in a shuttle, waving at her family. Her mother is crying, her brother looks bored, and her father is glaring. Her sister, however, is smiling, looking overjoyed for Nyota. When Nyota had seen this, she too had begun to feel excited.

They are nothing more than words on a paper but she cherishes them as if they are priceless treasures. Experiencing them and seeing them documented reminds her that there is a life waiting for her, one that she can have if only she can find it.

.  
.  
.

“Sorry,” the technician says. He has pulled his PADD out of his bag and along with it had come a huge card, which covers the desk in sparkling dust. In spite of his apology, he shows it to Nyota. A picture of five smiling children and pretty woman has been glued upon the paper, along with several paper flowers, glitter, and ribbon.

Globs of paste stick to Nyota’s fingers but she doesn’t mind. Written in bright green across the top of the card are the words: ‘Have a Good Day Daddy.’ She smiles, nodding her approval to the technician who is waiting for her reaction, “It’s cute.”

“Aren’t they talented?” The technician says. He points to each child in the picture in turn, “Those are my khagans Khutulun, Börte, and Töregene. My wife Chuluuny - she teaches Mongolian history hence our daughters’ names. And my twins, Asad and Luciano. We’re expecting our sixth in July.”

“They’re beautiful,” Nyota says. Her throat feels tight at the sight of her technician’s family. The hairs on her neck rise and she notices that the technician is still watching her. “You must be very proud.”

“Absolutely,” the technician says, “I’ve always wanted a big family. They are the joys of my life.”

He reaches out and Nyota hands him the card. He carefully puts it back into his bag. Then he hands Nyota his PADD, “Shall we read again today?”

“Alright,” Nyota says. She looks at the writing before her and sees that it is more latin verses, which pleases her. The technician settles into his chair, nodding for Nyota to begin. She reads, the words flowing easily off her tongue, but she cannot shake the tension which had settled on her the moment she had seen the photograph, "Vita nec scrutata vita nequam est."

“What is the translation?” the technician says.

“Idiomatically, ‘The unexamined life is a worthless life."

“Excellent,” the technician says, writing down notes. Nyota leans back in her chair, taking in the dozens of latin phrases from ‘The Last Days of Socrates’ that she translates with ease. Altogether, she had learned the language in a little less than two weeks. This fact brings her almost no satisfaction.

“Next week, we can start reading the Phaedo and the Crito,” the technician says, smiling at Nyota as she finishes and he completes his notes, “Would you like that?”

“Sure,” Nyota says. This is the part she has come to dread. He will ask her what she would like to know and she will be torn between dozens of questions, each more compelling than the last.

He doesn’t ask her however. Instead he hands her an envelope. When she stares at it, confused by this change in ceremony, he nods, telling her, “Open it. It’s yours.”

It is a simple white envelope. Nyota gripes the thick folds and sees the outline of what is inside. It is a flat rectangle with a smooth surface. A picture, she realizes. She tears away the paper,

It is a photograph of brown haired girl, dangling from a tree branch, grinning at the camera with round baby teeth. Nyota takes in the image of eyes that had always seemed happy to see her and small hands which had always sought out her own, and the curls which had been so adamantly against brushing.

The technician leans forward to look as well. “What did they give you?”

“This is my daughter,” Nyota says, “This is my Amandla.”

.  
.  
.

There is a small, thin tube in the drawer of her bathroom. Nyota finds herself staring at it one morning as she readies for the day. It does not belong to her, nor was it previously among the essential toiletries which her room is usually stocked with.

She picks it up, examine the silver and bright pink design which adorns its exterior. In her head, she hears laughter and gentle teasing from nights which have long passed. The sounds of old friends echo in her head. Nyota likes to dance and music makes her happy; it made sense that she now remembered nights spent going out. She tosses it back in the drawer and pulls out her toothbrush, feeling hollow.

Nyota watches the tube out of the corner of her eye as she goes about her usual routine until she can't resist any longer.

She pinches the top of the tube, twisting until the applicator can emerge. The eyeliner is black, simple black; straight to the point, timelessly elegant, no nonsense black.

Nyota glances at herself in the mirror. She has been at the institute for months and never worn makeup in that time. It was never available to her until this point. She is not even certain she knows how to put it on until she begins pulling the liner from its container and her hands begin to move with certainty.

Nyota leans close to the mirror, examining her face. She cleans the liner with a bit of paper so the point is fine, then dips it back into the container again to pick up a small amount. She presses down on the corner of her eyes, pulling lightly to smooth her eyelids. Her hands are surprisingly graceful as she brushes around the perimeter of her eyelids. When that is done, she is inspired to add a slight accentuation on the corner of her lids.

Nyota leans back to admire her work. The lines are clean and exact. This is infinitely pleasing to her. She moves to begin the other eye.

Without warning, the memory resurfaces. She is in another bathroom, placing Amandla on the counter. Persuaded, Nyota is gently applying black eyeliner to her daughter’s eyes, whispering her secrets as she works, “Be confident Amandla. Even if it’s not perfect, you can try again. It’s simple: gracefully up, down, and around.”

Nyota recalls Amandla turning to see herself in the mirror when her mother is finished. It is only temporary, a secret they will share. Amandla faces Nyota again, tilting up her head to allow her mother to wash off the makeup, “I like it, Mama.”

The tip of the applicator touches the sclera of Nyota’s right eye and the brush falls from her hand as pain races through her. Nyota turns on the facet, cupping her hands to collect water. She rinses out her eye until the redness fades.

She closes her eyes for a moment, both to soothe the burning and to recall. She has had no memories of her own child until that moment. Round cheeks with a hint of baby fat. Golden brown eyes with flecks of emerald. An easy smile.

Our Amandla.

There is a random streak of eyeliner across her cheekbone. Nyota washes it off along with the makeup she has already applied. Her face is bare as she tosses the eyeliner behind a shelf.

.  
.  
.

 

“Can I sit here?” Nyota asks.

Dr. Kimathi looks up, her eyebrows knitting as she analyzes Nyota up and down. When Nyota had noticed her across the cafeteria, the woman had been staring intently into the teacup in her hands. Nyota bits her tongue, certain she has annoyed the doctor. She had only meant to give company to another lonely soul. Bo is in physical therapy. Usually at this time in the day, they take a walk around the perimeter of the institute but today the muscles in her friend’s left leg had felt stiff and he had required physical therapy to ease his pain. Nyota begins looking around for another place to sit when Dr. Kimathi finally speaks, “Of course.”

Nyota pauses, positive she is unwanted and the woman is being polite, until the woman smiles, so broadly and so earnestly, Nyota’s guilt fades and she feels comfortable sitting down.

“How have you been?” Dr. Kimathi asks.

“Very well,” Nyota responds, without even thinking about the question. She turns her attention to her oatmeal, mixing in cocoa powder and honey.

“Is that true?” Dr. Kimathi says. Nyota looks up from her food. Dr. Kimathi is watching her, with eyes that still seem oddly affectionate.

What does Dr. Kimathi see when she looks at Nyota? Does she just see a patient who is better for her efforts or something else?

Nyota shifts in her seat, “I feel frustrated.”

“I understand,” Dr. Kimathi says, “The memories, they always seem to take far too long to return. I’ve never met a single patient who was not impatient.”

“I also think,” Nyota says and then stops. There is nothing judgemental about Dr. Kimathi’s gaze nor is anything but kindness in her expression, and yet she cannot bring herself to speak truthfully. Finally, she manages to say, “I also think something is preventing me from remembering.”

“Yes,” Dr. Kimathi says, “Sometimes bad events can prevent patients from regaining their memories.”

Nyota shakes her head. The very thought of having experienced an event so terrible she didn’t want to remember made her stomach turn.

“How are you?” Nyota asks, hoping this will change the conversation.

Dr. Kimathi seems to pause, “Very well. My family and I are planning a party.”

“Your family?” Nyota asks, intrigued. She had enjoyed this before too. She had liked people, liked hearing their stories, knowing them.

Dr. Kimathi pauses before she answers, as if she needs to think about what she is going to say, “I have four children, six grandchildren, and ten great-grandchildren. I was married for seventy three years. My husband died three years, four months, and 22 days ago.

Specific, Nyota thinks, her mouth pinching to hid her random amusement, “I’m sorry. You must miss him terribly.”

“It was difficult to forget his habits but I still have my family,” Dr. Kimathi says.

“I’ve always wanted a family,” Nyota says, “I would have loved having grandchildren.”

This she knows instinctively. She has only begun to remember her young adulthood. Yesterday in session, she recalled her twenty-first birthday. Or parts of it.

Dr. Kimathi’s expression changes minutely. Before Nyota can even interpret the new face, it is back to a more neutral mien. “They are wonderful,” Dr. Kimathi says, “I love them dearly.”

Nyota smiles, uncertain how to proceed. Dr. Kimathi takes a final sip from her cup before standing, saying, “I require more coffee.” Nyota nods, feeling somewhat rejected until Dr. Kimathi adds after a moment of silence, “Would you like to join me? I roast it myself. My office is right down the hall.”

“Yes,” Nyota says, widening her eyes to emphasize her point. She lowers her voice so no one will overhear, “The coffee here is awful.”

Dr. Kimathi chuckles before biting her lip. She moves around the table and takes a hold of Nyota’s upper arm, “No one knows that better than I, dear.”

Dr. Kimathi’s office is shockingly bare. There is no desk, only an extension on the windowsill with a small computer, a lamp, and a stool and then a couch in the center of the room. What she lacks in furniture, she makes up for in books and pictures. Two entire walls are covered in shelves which are packed with books of all sizes. On every bare inch of furthest wall, from top to bottom, hangs a framed picture. Nyota makes a beeline for the wall of photographs.

“Is this you?” Nyota asks, pointing to a teenager on a mountain top.

“Yes. When I was a toddler, they said I would never be very athletic because of my various illnesses. I decided they were wrong,” she tells Nyota, winking.

Nyota laughs before pointing to another photograph, “And this must be your husband,”

“Yes,” Dr. Kimathi says, stroking the handsome man’s picture, “That’s my Adil.”

Nyota touches the doctor’s arm before pointing to another picture, “Who’s this?”

Dr. Kimathi is glowing with pride as she shows Nyota each of her family members, “That’s my oldest child Thandiewe. And there is my youngest son Sizwe, and these are my twins Ama and Amadi,” Nyota nods along, trying to remember each name. Then, Dr. Kimathi is telling her stories and Nyota loses track of time.

“I had a daughter,” Nyota finds herself confessing to Dr. Kimathi, “Her name was Amandla.”

“But you can’t remember her, can you?” Dr. Kimathi says. When Nyota doesn’t respond, Dr. Kimathi adds, “Don’t worry. You will. You are strong enough to move past that which prevents you from having access to those happy days.”

These words please Nyota greatly. They are the first affirmation she has received in a very long time.

"Can I see you tomorrow?" Nyota asks after they finish their coffee and Nyota has learned the entirety of Dr. Kimathi’s family tree, "Perhaps we can have lunch?"

Dr. Kimathi smiles, so pleasantly Nyota can't believe she ever thought the woman was slightly strange.

"I would enjoy that very much Nyota."

.  
.  
.

There is a different air in the institute today.

“Is something wrong?” Nyota asks her technician. He has been staring at the floor as she makes a half-hearted attempt at a puzzle.

“Huh?” the technician says, looking up at her, “You are finished?”

“Um,” Nyota mutters, pushing the puzzle towards him. Her spatial abilities are somewhat lacking. There are several pieces she became frustrated with which are broken from mishandling and it is barely half done but the technician glances at it and nods vigorously.

“That’s good,” the technician says.

“Is it?” Nyota says. She leans forward, “Is there something bothering you?”

The technician shakes his head, “Don’t worry about it,” he forces a smile at her, “It’s nothing worth worrying about.”

The moment the words pass his lips, there is a commotion outside the door. The technician jumps to his feet to open the door. Around him, in the hallway, she can see two uniformed police officers leading a calm Dr. Kimathi.

“Bibi!” the technician calls.

“It’s alright,” Dr. Kimathi says, holding up her hand so he can see she is not wearing handcuffs. She sees Nyota behind the technician and nods at her, “Everything will be fine.”

The technician watches as Dr. Kimathi walks away. He sit down with Nyota as she tries the puzzle again, his eyes not quite focusing on her, and then excuses both of them several minutes early.

Later, when Nyota is wandering the halls, she hears a news broadcaster through an open door, “ - _arrested earlier based on charges of violating the Full Death Law_ ,” Nyota has time to glance through the door and see Dr. Kimathi on the screen at a press conference. Then one of the staff in the room, one of the many watching the screen, notices her and closes the door.


	5. Chapter 5

The washer and dryer are located next to the door of the garage. Taka complains endlessly that the arrangement prevents the door from opening all the way and that it would be better located if they put it downstairs in the basement.

Amandla needs it by the door though. Everyday after work, she strips off her scrubs as soon as she comes home. Her top, bottoms, and shoes, go directly into the container above the washer to be sterilized by pressurized ethylene dioxide. If she is particularly worried, she throws her underwear and compression socks into the washer right away too and heads straight for the shower.

It seems obsessive to all but her. “I do not want to transmit a virus,” Amandla says every time Taka brings up moving the machines. He always rests the matter following that statement.

That night is no different. She is sore from standing all day and the flesh over her upper iliac crest is throbbing. She can feel it pulsing through the bandage every time she reaches to examine it. In spite of the pressure, there is no sign of infection. It is healed properly for all practical purposes.

There is a window across from the washer and Amandla looks at her reflection. She is thin and tall, her arms and legs lengthy. Lanky, some might say. She looks like a sullen child, still, particularly in that moment, when her back is bent from exhaustion and her face can’t muster even a content expression. Feeling self-conscious, and the slightest bit helpless, Amandla seizes her robe from its hook and wraps herself as she looks for clean clothes.

“Well, hello there,” Amandla turns to the voice coming from the doorways which attaches the washing room to the living room. Her husband is watching her, smiling coyly, “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Hey yourself,” Amandla replies. Her skin is crawling and she pulls her underwear off under her robe, tossing them into the washing machine.

“Are you trying to seduce me?” Taka asks, his eyes watching the undergarments as she flings them into the machine, “I’m not usually that kind of boy but you’re cute.”

“A patient threw up on me,” Amandla informs him, “I’m going to take a shower.”

“Oh, you don’t have to flirt with me, doll,” Taka says, “I’m already yours.”

She chuckles, in spite of herself and the hours of strain and stress burdening her body. Amandla takes his hand, kissing each of his knuckles in turn. He squeezes her hand but does not kiss her back or initiate further contact. He knows that she wouldn’t see that as simple affection.

“There’s miso, when you’re done,” Taka tells her.

“Thank you,” Amandla says, “Make sure you wash your hand. Scrub good. Don’t touch your face until it’s clean.”

“Yes, dear,” Taka says, biting his lip.

He leaves. Seconds later, she hears him in the kitchen warming up dinner for her. Amandla strips off her robe, tossing it in the washer with her other clothes. The bathroom is only steps away. In front of the mirror, she check her surgical wound again, peeling the bandage off and looking at herself in the light. The skin around the area is normal, in color and temperature. Still, it seems to throb as if infected.

Dr. Nguyen had tried to insist she use general anesthesia or at least a spinal but she had refused. The very idea made her skin crawl, made images flash through her mind of cracked skulls and emergency surgeries. Plus there would be a record made when they pulled such drugs. Finally, Dr. Nguyen relented, giving her a sedative and a strong analgesic and applying only a superficial numbing cream to the area.

The high dose of the analgesic, a benzodiazepine, should have wiped her memory of the entire procedure. It hadn’t. Perhaps it was her fast metabolism. Perhaps it was an error in dosage. Perhaps it was yet another mystery of her hybrid heritage. In any event, Amandla had remembered everything.

Amandla almost vomited when the thick needles passed through her skin. By the time it penetrated the bone, she was in tears, her vision going black. Amandla had clung to the operating table so hard, her fingers left imprints.

Dr. Nguyen had reached for her as the marrow pumped from Amandla’s pelvic bone, touching her friend’s leg, both to calm her and prevent extraneous movement. Amandla had felt her colleague’s conflicted thoughts, her concern for Amandla, and a dull nausea. Then it was finally over. She had allowed herself to sleep, awakening hours later in the recovering room. That had been three days prior.

Even at the highest setting, the water in the shower is not hot enough. The soap has iodine in it and the smell burns her nostrils. She takes care to clean behind her ears, under her fingernails, in between her fingers. Amandla had taken every precaution with the virus she had isolated from Lieutenant Hawkins but it seemed more than acceptable to be overly rigorous in her antimicrobial control, particularly given her knowledge of how pathogenic it was, how fatal, unsympathetic, and horrific, the disease itself could be.

Finally, she steps out, wrapping herself tightly in towels. Amandla sits on the counter, huddled into herself, focusing on her drying skin rather than the unwelcome thoughts which threaten to enter her awareness.

She begins to dress herself eventually. As she begins to comb her hair and braid it, she hears a tapping on the door. Taka would never knock; he would burst in. He didn’t believe in such decorum.

Amandla opens the door slightly, glancing through the crack at her daughter. Danae stares up at her mother, the young girl’s dark eyes a stark contrast to the white mask she has on, covering her mouth and nose. Danae has lived with her mother’s eccentrics her entire life. She must have grabbed the personal protective mask from the case Amandla keeps in the linen closet.

“What are you doing up?” Amandla asks, kneeling down. Her throat tightens with guilt at the sight of her child wearing the safety mask and she gently removes it, “You don’t need that. You’re safe.”

There is a voice in her head, caustically reminding her that they took every precaution too and it was not sufficient. Amandla takes a deep breath, quickly reviewing all her practices that day. She had made no errors. She is able to kiss Danae on the forehead.

Danae wraps her arms around Amandla’s neck, holding tightly even as her mother attempts to pull away. Amandla quickly relents, allowing Danae to cling to her.

“It was too dark in my room,” Danae says in Amandla’s ear, “I couldn’t see anything but I heard a noise.”

“There aren’t any monster in the shadows or in the closet or under your bed, Danae,” Amandla reminds her, “Remember? We searched everywhere and there were none.”

“I know,” Danae says, pulling away, her arms still wrapped around Amandla, “but I always forget at night. Maybe if you put me to bed like you used to, I’d remember?”

It is not an accusation but it cuts like one. Amandla says, “Maybe. Let’s try that now? You have school tomorrow and you need to sleep.”

Danae nods and Amandla picks her up. The kitchen is next to the stairs and Taka glances around the corner to look at them. He shots Danae a look and their daughter buries her face in Amandla’s shoulder.

“I’ll put her back to bed,” Amandla says before Taka can speak.

Where the rest of the house is a demonstration in fastidiousness, thanks to Taka, Danae’s room looks like an earthquake has just occurred. The only clean area of the room is the closet, which seems to have exiled all clothing and toys to the rest of the room. Amandla kicks a pathway through dirty sneakers and wrinkled clothing, too tired to remind Danae again that she should at least attempt to be tidier.

Amandla playfully drops Danae on the bed, tucking her deep violet bedspread over her. Danae does not remain where she was placed; after Amandla lays next to her on the bed, Danae pops up, hastily straddling her mother’s stomach, pinning Amandla against the mattress.

“Go to sleep, Danae,” Amandla says. The mattress underneath her is much too comfortable and she begins to feel the will to stay awake leaving her muscles. Her eyes begin to close.

“I didn’t get to hear about your day,” Danae says, poking Amandla in the chest until her mother opens her eyes, “What did you do today?”

Amandla knows she should not allow this but resistance would take effort. “First, I removed a tumor. Patient didn’t like the anesthesia very much but he’s okay now.”

She does not elaborate. Danae does not need to know that the patient was a four year old with an atypical teratoid rhabdoid tumor. She does not need to know about the radiation, and the details of the excision, nor the mortality rate for such a condition even with treatment. Her daughter does not need to know about the patient aspirating or the monitor which had flatlined for a full minute. There is no need to share anything, despite how much she wishes to tell someone, to have another person hear.

“And then?”

“I wrote an abstract for our paper on memory recovery,” Amandla says, “That took a very long time, Danae. It’s hard to get to the point. It was two pages long. I threw it on Imani desk. Hopefully she’ll take care of it.”

She’s behind on the paper. Imani is concerned her lack of focus will cost them a grant. Amandla makes a mental note to review the schedules her team has with their third cohort of experimental subjects.

“We need this Amandla,” Imani had said. Amandla had tried to listen but she wasn’t focused, not even a little, “You need to do well right now, especially after all the risks the administration took in hiring you.”

“And then?” Danae says, interuppting Amandla’s thoughts.

“I reviewed my DNA survey,” Amandla says, “T’Tal has developed a machines which reads and copies the genetic code of thousands of body cells in the space of a few seconds. It uses stem cells and producing exact copies of various organs and cells.”

“Why did you do that?”

“Well, last week I took a sample of bone marrow from,” Amandla pauses before lying, “an anonymous donor so that I could create nervous tissue using the information from my survey. I used that nervous tissue to test a treatment,” Amandla says, “Then I went to lunch and when I came back, I performed an analysis of my experiment on said nervous tissue.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to see if my treatment had made the nervous tissue regenerate,” Amandla says, yawning. “The mass had grown exponentially since I performed the treatment.”

“Why?”

“Because I used data I collected from virus which instigates mitosis in neural tissue to bring about the same changes in my sample of neural tissue,” Amandla says. She digs deep and pushes Danae off of her chest, “Go to sleep.”

Danae remains on the mattress but throws her leg over Amandla’s waist. Having used all her energy, Amandla allows this. Her eyes are heavy so she closes them. Her thought grow vague and her breathing slows but she is not yet asleep.

“Why are you using data from a virus to instigate mitosis in nervous tissue you made from stem cells from bone marrow?” Danae asks.

Amandla sighs, pulling Danae close until her daughter’s head to laying on her chest. Amandla pats Danae gently on the back, hoping this will put her to sleep as it used to when Danae was an infant.

“Why are you - ”

“Because it’s the right thing to do and I can do it,” Amandla says, “That’s why.”

“Okay,” Danae says, finally laying her head down on Amandla’s chest.  
.  
.  
.  
“What were you doing?” T’Tal asks. She examines the torn flesh of Amandla’s palm before reaching for the container of aerosolized lidocaine. Her gaze is on the task before her but Amandla’s knows where her friend’s attention is. Some would think this were a casual conversation but Amandla has spent the past several weeks feeling watched.

“Making genetic markers,” Amandla says. In spite of everything, she wants to say more. She has never been good at keeping secrets. If nothing else, it would be nice to have someone to talk about her ideas with. Instead of confessing, however, she bites her tongue and tries not to wince when T’Tal coats her bloody hand with the local anesthetic.

“I see,” T’Tal says. She glances at Amandla’s face, just for a moment but long enough that Amandla can see her friend looks confused before reaching for guaze pad and rubbing alcohol. She begins to wipe away the blood before asking, “Are you having trouble making the markers bond to the individual cells?”

That is the exact problem Amandla has been having. In fact, this is her fifteenth try at getting the cells just the way she wants them. She had been so angry when her attempt had once again produced another useless tumor that she had slammed the petri dish with her sample down on the table, which had only resulted in breaking the glass and cutting up her hand.

Amandla clears her throat, “I’m glad you were here still. The tissue regenerators always makes the ugliest scars.”

“Imani told me to stay and watch over you,” T’Tal says simply, “She told me to be discrete but I fail to see why I need to be - what is the word?”

“Sneaky,” Amandla says.

“Sneaky,” T’Tal agrees. “I don’t see the point. You and I don’t have secrets.”

“I suppose that’s always been our way,” Amandla says, sitting back in her chair. She does not miss what lies beneath her friend’s statement. They both watch quietly as T’Tal gently removes the shards of glass from Amandla’s palm. After it has been quiet for too long, Amandla adds, “I’m fine you know.”

Amandla sounds like a child who’s been caught doing something they shouldn’t have been doing and T’Tal smiles, slightly and in a manner very much like that of Amandla’s father, “I know. You are always fine when you have a project to consume you. It is why you do this, yes?”

“Yes,” Amandla says. She braces herself as T’Tal’s forceps takes hold of the shard of glass which is deepest in her palm but her friend moves so carefully, she barely feels the piece being removed.

T’Tal picks up the sutures she laid out on the disposable pad and then leans close. She seems to pause for several seconds before she makes her first stitch. Amandla watches T’Tal work, impressed by the attention to detail. Not too deep, not too shallow, and the sutures are miniscule. Amandla will barely have a scar.

“Thank you,” Amandla says, exhaling the breath she did not realize she had been holding. T’Tal nods but does not look up. Again, Amandla feels the need to explain herself. Her friend would understand. It is barely an idea. Amandla opens her mouth, feels her tongue begin to move.

“I’m done,” T’Tal says before Amandla can speak.

“Looks good,” Amandla says.

T’Tal sprays antimicrobial solution onto the sutured wound and then dresses it. When she is done, she begins to stand and then stops. “My apologies. I forgot decorum,” T’Tal says, before bending swiftly to kiss the bandage over Amandla’s palm.

Amandla bits her lip. It has been several years since she and Imani had told T’Tal about that tradition. Her friend had always misunderstood but Amandla didn’t have the stomach to set her right.

T’Tal is different. Even after all her time among humans, she is still that strange girl whom Amandla had met all those years ago, the alien who desperately wanted to fit in but simply couldn’t.

‘She would understand,’ Amandla thinks. Surely someone who was constantly on the periphery of society could understand Amandla’s own impulses.

And beyond that, Amandla can't bear the thought of lying to her anymore. It is her machine after all.

“I want to show you something,” Amandla blurts out. She stands and goes to her office, before T’Tal can respond and before Amandla can lose her nerve.

The machine is hidden, in the closet, covered in an old bedsheet and placed between her toolbox and some office supplies. The samples are in the secured safe underneath her desk. Amandla is very careful with them, just as she is with all of her tests, but these experiments are different. She stops, takes a deep breath, and then forces herself to take her things and set up so that she can make her display. T’Tal sits in the guest’s chair at Amandla’s desk, watching as her friend prepares.

The original sample of neural tissue, the one she had originally coaxed out of her own stem cells, is the first thing Amandla shows T’Tal. It is surrounded in plasma which gives it glucose, electrical stimulation, and other materials to sustain it. T’Tal takes it, examines it with a neutral expression. She knows pathology, knows exactly what she holds in her hand.

Many different types of tissue are regenerated in labs for expirements but not nervous tissue.

When T’Tal sees the machine, she purses her lips. It is a prototype, one of T’Tal’s own. It is used to label cells with a specific genes sequence, a tag with enough bases to induce one cycle of replication. The marker stays with only one cell and can be used to locate and destroy labeled duplicate cells, leaving behind only a new perfect copy. It worked, to Amandla’s nearly blind joy, on deceased cells too, with a little assistance from a certain mix of chemicals and a very specific wavelength of light to cut damaged portions and reuse them.

It is sample from the tumor of neural cells, however, that truly gets T’Tal’s attention. She immediately reaches out and grabs the slide which carries a label that shows it was produced that day and what is was intended to be.

“A cerebellum?” T’Tal asks, “You made a cerebellum?”

“In theory,” Amandla says, wringing her hands, “It is supposed to be a cerebellum but it is not. It’s a bunch of worthless cells.”

T’Tal stares at the slide for so long that Amandla begins to shift in her chair. Finally, T’Tal puts down the sample and leans to get a closer look at her prototype machine. Amandla sees her eyebrow move, a slight change in expression, that she knows well.

“I’m doing something wrong,” Amandla says, “Tell me what it is.”

T’Tal turns her head away from Amandla. There can only be one thing in her line of vision. The container for used hypos. Amandla’s office was once an examination room but now that it is a work space, the container is usually empty. At that moment, however, it is not.

“What was in the intramuscular shot you gave yourself?”

“Antivirals,” Amandla says without hesitation. She feels her jaw tightening but she is able to add, “I gave it to myself when I cut my hand on the glass from the petri dish. The sample is infected with a non-pathogenic specimen but I would rather be safe than sorry.”

It was not pathogenic. Amandla had told herself that a hundred times but it was like a wolf without teeth, a lion without claws. Even without that which made it so deadly, it still stuck fear in her mind.

“You made that medication yourself, did you not?” T’Tal asks.

“I did,” Amandla says. It was easy. They had technology that made the process simple. She was lucky, in that regard. It allowed her to move forward with her work. She twists her hands to resist her old vice and tells T’Tal, “Ask me what you want to know. I’ll tell the truth. You deserve that.”

T’Tal does answer for so long that Amandla begins to feel a panic rising through her. Why did Amandla do this? She should never have done this. She should give the machine back and forget about all of this nonsense.

“Imani was right, was she not?” T’Tal says, “You have put an enormous amount of personal - ”

“She was,” Amandla admits, unable to hear her own thoughts on another person’s lips, “but this is about more than me.”

“That is a truth,” T’Tal says. She turns her attention back to the machine. She inputs several numbers into the screen, telling Amandla, “I found one of the students using it without permission so I put a safety measure on it. You have been using the wrong setting. It should work properly now.”

Amandla reaches for one of the test samples, more than prepared to test again, but T’Tal moves the machine away. She stands, blocking Amandla from having access.

“This is my invention,” T’Tal says, “You must do this according to the ethical protocol of our university.”

“I will,” Amandla says. T’Tal is angry. Amandla can tell and she can barely stand it. She reaches out and T’Tal pauses but finally presses her wrist against Amandla’s fingers, “I know I shouldn't have taken it and I'm sorry but I swear that I will do this the right way.”

T’Tal’s presence is a comforting warmth inside Amandla’s mind. As always, T’Tal does not press where she is not wanted. She takes what Amandla gives her and then pulls away. T’Tal mutters under her breath, their brief link still making her eyes hazy, “So very quiet.”

Amandla pretends not to hear this. It seems almost taboo to comment on the state of one another’s mind. No one even knows they do this, when they are alone, this sharing of thoughts like bond mates. It is mostly for comfort, or so she tells herself.

T’Tal shakes her head, her lips tight with shame at her slip. She look at her machine, a neutral presence in the room and asks, “I require one more answer.”

Amandla knows what T’Tal wants to know without articulation.

“They were good people. I can’t bear the thought of them being forgotten in some basement. This is a chance to be . . . ” Amandla’s voice trails off. A chance to be what? Heroic? Brave? None are the right words. “You know what I mean.”

“I do not,” T’Tal says, “We come from very similar circumstances but we are not the same.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that,” Amandla says. It is another truth. There was no one who would admit they had made mistakes in T’Tal’s case.

“You are forgiven,” T’Tal says. She stands up and leaves, returning quickly with two sets of protective equipment. “Let us start now. Prepare the sample. I will set the machine.”  
.  
.  
.

“ . . . the exhaust system on station four and seven will be fixed by the end of the week. I’ve checked the schedule and we will be fine with the functioning ones we have until then,” Imani says. She puts down her notes and surveys the room before her. The students sit closest, listening intently. Behind them are the laboratory staff, most of whom are either pretending to listen or doing work underneath the tables. Then in the back table, like a cliche, the surgical team, openly typing on their PADDs with huge grins on their faces.

T’Tal, Amandla, and their visiting scholar, Dr. Nguyen, are not in attendance. Imani prays they are off preparing for the visit from the chair of their department and the grant committee. Yet, somehow, she knows better. Imani hasn’t seen them all morning.

“Any questions? Shall I go over the suggestions?” Imani asks the staff. In response, there is only vacant eyes and silence. She reaches for the PADD. Only fourteen more minutes and she can call the meeting to an end. She opens the application which records the anonymous messages. It is usually just requests for better resources, which the students occasionally use for homework and other times to blatantly plagiarize. Today, there is only one, “Ah, the question was, ‘What do you need to have to do your job?’ and someone answered, eight minutes ago I might add, ‘Fifty credits, please let me leave this meeting.’”

Imani glances at the table where the surgical team are huddled around a PADD, fighting not to laugh. It’s them. It’s always them.

They weren’t the biggest asses she’d ever met. Not in this profession. Not by a long shot. And really it was rare to find good people Amandla trusted and they were the best, all of them, so they could act any way they wanted.

Still, of all the people in their lab, that team gave her the most headaches.

“We’ll end early today. Chairman Jalloh will be here at 1345. I will be coming around at noon to see that everything is ready. You’re dismissed.”

The staff begin to filter out of the room. Imani puts away her things. It is only 0830. She probably has enough time to get a cup of coffee and have a few minutes alone. Quiet and caffeine, she thinks lustfully. There is nothing more she wants, especially on such a day.

Unfortunately, she makes the mistake of passing by Dr. Nguyen’s desk. It usually immaculate but that day, it is litered with broken PADD styluses, half drunk containers of energy drinks, and a digital card with a shattered screen. Imani sees what is not there as well: Dr. Nguyen’s x-ray marker. Then, on the corner of the table, an empty bottle without a label.

Imani opens the bottle and sniffs inside to confirm. Floral. Hops. Valerian. Passion Flower. Imani’s mother had been an enthusiastic user of herbal remedies. So was Dr. Nguyen’s mother. It was something they had discussed during lunches when Dr. Nguyen had first arrived. This is a tincture to fall asleep. Their visiting scholar is not prone to insomnia, unless there is a deadline looming. Dr. Nguyen had told Imani this too, while they were writing a paper on chemical memory retrieval together.

The surgical team is crowded around a lab table, still giggling over their PADD with whatever it has on it. There is nothing scheduled for the day. Imani had made sure of it. But what else could T’Tal and Amandla and Dr. Nguyen be doing?

Chiang, the circulating nurse, sees Imani approaching. She nudges the anesthesiologist Dr. M’Ballah who pulls away the PADD from Okezi, Amandla’s first assistant nurse.

“What are you three up to?” Imani asks.

“We’re having an a debate,” Okezi says, grinning, “Tell her what we were talking about, M’Ballah.”

“We were wondering: do infants enjoy infancy as much as adults enjoy adultery?” M’Ballah says, “Hasna has some thought - ”

Of course this is what they were doing.

“Have you see Dr. Siong and Dr. Uhura-Nakamura?” Imani asks, “Are they with Dr. Nguyen?”

“I think they’re downstairs,” Chiang says, “I mean, they said they were going downstairs.”

Vague, Imani thinks, nodding at the trio before excusing herself. There is nothing in the area beneath the lab but storage space and one operating room where they sometimes use for experimental trials. It’s unlikely, but Imani can’t stop thinking about how secretive Amandla and T’Tal have been for the past several weeks.

There is a universal key in her office. As she moves to go get it, she keeps telling herself that she will find nothing. Yet she cannot help but worry. Neither T’Tal nor Amandla have tenure. If they get caught doing unauthorized experiments, at best, they will be fired. At worst, they would irreparably lose their reputation and -

The light in on in Amandla’s office. She can see people moving within. Imani opens the door and is immediately affronted by the smell of multiple spices. Before she can even gag, someone is holding a mask against her face.

“Did you inhale?” Amandla asks, fastening the elastic band behind Imani’s ears.

Only then does Imani see the glowing bar over the door. She hadn’t even noticed the humming sanitizer, even thought it had surely turned on when she had entered. She slaps away Amandla’s hands as her friend tries to force her into goggles, “Is this why none of you were at my staff meeting? Are you all sick?”

“No,” T’Tal says at the precise moments that Dr. Nguyen, who is curled up on Amandla’s couch, groans, “Yes.”

“Ignore her,” Dr. Nguyen says, “We’ve been working on a proposal for the last two nights to give to Dr. Jalloh. Amandla’s kid got us all sick.”

“Dr. Nguyen and Dr. Uhura-Nakamura have become infected by a strain of rhinovirus,” T’Tal says from her place atop Amandla’s desk. Her nose is slightly green and her voice is strange from inflammation.

Imani goes to press a hand against T’Tal forehead. T’Tal tries to push away Imani’s hands but it is too late. A mild fever, Imani notes with dread. “And so are you.”

“I’ve already given her antibodies,” Amandla says, “She’s been under my constant observation since last night when her symptoms appeared. Rhinovirus can spread through airborne transmission and it prefers temperatures between 33 and 35 degrees celsius, which means it thrives in the nasal cavity.”

Imani is irritated but in spite of herself, she feels herself grin. Amandla is beginning to chew on her fingernails so Imani says, “I did not inhale. I’ll be fine. We will all be fine.”

“Speak for yourself,” Dr. Nguyen says, “I feel awful.”

“Dr. Nguyen is experiencing vertigo,” T’Tal says.

“I see,” Imani says. She examines the ancient coffee maker which is set up on Amandla’s desk which is coated with ground ginger and stained yellow, most likely from tumeric. She pulls out her phone, “Let me get you all something to eat.”

“What about the visit?” Amandla asks.

“I’ll take care of it. When it’s over, I’m taking all three of you home,” Imani says.

“Are you sure?” Amandla asks, “I have a mask. I could come out, if I’m needed.”

“You’re not needed,” Imani says, a bit too briskly.

“Can you buy us some tom kha gai?” T’Tal asks, watching the exchange. Imani chews the inside of her mouth, grateful at the attempt to change the subject.

“Yes,” Dr. Nguyen says, “From that restaurant in the quad. I want that soup, Dr. Bakkari.”

“Fine, I’ll get that soup,” Imani says, pulling up the order form.

“You better. Your staff gave me the plague. I feel like I’m dying,” Dr. Nguyen says.

“Death from a cold is very rare,” Imani says. She avoids Amandla’s eyes. Meeting her gaze would verify that Dr. Nguyen’s throw away comment is a justified concern.

“I know that,” Dr. Nguyen says, trying to lift her head, “Why would you say something so terrible?”

Imani waves a hand, “I meant nothing by it. Dr. Nguyen, get up. That couch folds out into a bed.”

Dr. Nguyen rolls off the couch just long enough for Imani to pull out the bed. Then their visiting scholar collapses back into the mattress, sighing loudly.

“Do you still have that cot in here, little one?” Imani asks, tucking the covers over Dr. Nguyen.

“I don’t want to sleep,” Amandla says.

Imani moves to pulls Amandla’s cot out of the the closet, “I’lll be here. You need rest.”

“No,” Amandla replies.

T’Tal, who has curled up on an armchair in the corner, lifts her head to look at them. Amandla broadens her shoulders and looks Imani square in the eye. Imani shrugs. There is no point arguing.

“Fine,” Imani says, “I’ll come back when I have your food.”

“One last thing,” Amandla says, “There’s an intubation kit - ”

“I’ll bring it for you,” Imani interrupts her, “At least try and lay your head down? For me, please?”

“You are all so morbid,” Dr. Nguyen grumbles, “What could you possibly need an intubation kit for Amandla?”

“Amandla had a patient in medical school who developed a severe case of epiglottitis,” T’Tal says, “The patient required intubation.”

“It was just a sore throat in the beginning,” Amandla adds quietly.

“It can be hard to forget things like that,” Imani says. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees T’Tal touching her throat. Amandla has a nearly perfect memory, if Imani recalls correctly from their days of exams and paper writing. Sometimes, it must be nearly impossible to forget things, even if Amandla wants too.

“Good story,” Dr. Nguyen mutters into her pillow, “Before I forget, the proposal is in there the top drawer. Please give it to the chairman for review.”

Imani goes to the desk. Inside is a digital copy of an experimental proposal written for the university ethical board to consider. Imani glances over it. She can hear the movement of a chair. Amandla is sitting up to watch her expression.

Of course, Imani has never seen this proposal. She can guess what is is from the half dozen x-ray images Dr. Nguyen attached and the brief summary T’Tal wrote on the cover page. Imani wants to be angry but, as usual, she feels the same old, strange pity followed like a habit by the urge to protect her friend from her own self.

“This is a project you’re interested in?” Imani asks. Dr. Nguyen mumbles an affirmative but Imani is waiting for Amandla’s reply. This is as close to insight into her younger friend’s way of thinking as she can seem to get these days. Amandla, at least not now, is not Imani’s patient. It is not for lack of trying, nor is it something Imani prefers.

“It is. Is it alright?” Amandla asks.

Such a simple question, like she wants to know if the spelling is acceptable.

“I’ll make sure to give this to them,” Imani says. She leaves without glancing back.

Imani can’t stop her. She can only hope this will end with the board rejecting the proposal. How can they not? This whole thing seems so wrong. Nothing will come of this and of that she is almost certain.

Yet, after she has handed the proposal over and Dr. Jalloh has had a moment to see it, their chairman asks to keep the proposal for further review and Imani wants nothing more than to take it back. It is too late though, too late for all of it.


	6. Chapter 6

He leaves a note. 

You were born together, and together you shall be forevermore.   
You shall be together when white wings of death scatter your days.   
Aye, you shall be together even in the silent memory of God.   
But let there be spaces in your togetherness,   
And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.   
Love one another but make not a bond of love:   
Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.   
Fill each other's cup but drink not from one cup.   
Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf.   
Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,   
Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.   
Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping.   
For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.   
And stand together, yet not too near together:   
For the pillars of the temple stand apart,   
And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow.

It is from their book, from the chapter, ‘On Marriage’. Later, she doctors it up, for the sake of others but to her, the proposal is more than enough. It as close to perfection as can be possible. 

.  
.  
.

“Are you comfortable?” Spock asks. It’s a foolish statement, one only articulated for the purpose of interrupting the silence that had fallen between them in the time since they had wished her family good night. She is transmitting no external indicator of discomfort. Perhaps he is wrong and the silence is one built to allow her to focus on unrelated thoughts. 

“I’m cold,” she says, after a second of thought. Her voice is low and unemotional. This only serves to excessivate his hidden fears. 

He gives her his jacket. She wraps the garment tightly around her body, sinking her face into the collar, sighing deeply. Her eyes close and he allows himself to believe the fallacy that she is asleep. 

“Let the machine get it,” Nyota says when they arrive at her home, the domicile where he also spends the majority of his time, and the communicator is signaling that a call is incoming. 

He obliges and soon thereafter the sound of her brother Kamau’s voice fills her small apartment. “Dada! You should have heard Baba after you left. He actually said Spock ‘had no warmth’. Can you believe it? Is that not-”

Nyota leaps across the room to answer the call before her fiancee can hear anymore. She glances at Spock before taking the communicator into her room. Nyota speaks softly but he hears every word she and Kamau say. Kamau tries to find a humorous element to the situation, telling his sister he could burn down the ancestral home their parents occupy and it would be of small concern when compared to the matter that is Spock but Nyota does not find him entertaining.

Spock intently watches his feet as Nyota returns afterwards. With no hesitation, she comes and sits in his lap. When she speaks, he is able to discern from her tone based on his experience with her that she is speaking truthfully, “I’m fine. Don’t let it bother you. Please.”

.  
.  
.

He is not like us. You don’t understand what you are getting into.

Nyota stops, squeezes her eyes shut, and takes a deep breath. She forces her thought away. This is a happy day. She will not be bothered by what her parents deemed necessary to say the day before her wedding. Not in the months prior. Not in the weeks prior. The very day before had been the time they had decided to air their grievances when there was no time to talk about their issues or come to a viable solution.

The only conclusion she could come to was that they hadn’t wanted a solution at all. 

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Nyota tells herself, ‘I made my choice.’

She would have discussed it. She might have been angry but she would have discussed it. They were her parents. He was the man she had chosen to spend her life with. She would have found a common ground for them all to exist in. Then they went and choose not to attend her wedding at all. That would be much more difficult to forgive.

She feels him close behind her and leans back into his solid frame. Their guests are swarming around them but when he looks at her, she feels his apology. She brushes it off, leaning to kiss his jaw, muttering into his skin, “You did absolutely nothing wrong.”

Even as she says it, she feels their words seeping into her consciousness. 

What if you can’t have children?

Do you even know how different our cultures are?

He’s not compatible with you.

Nyota turns and buries her face into Spock’s chest. She needs only a minute, to grab hold of his jacket, to remember he is there, and she is settled again. She releases him and turns back to her wedding. 

‘It is not you,’ Nyota tells him through their bond, “It is simply the reminder that there were parts of me that they might never understand or accept.” She bites her lip, hoping he does not mistake her questionable wording. 

He rests his hand on the junction between her waist and her backside and does not respond. The photographer is calling Spock over. He leaves, his hand stroking hers as he passes.

Moments later, she watches as her husband’s relatives surround him. Over a dozen cousins, aunts, and uncles crowd around Spock and his father, all stoic and placid, so that the photographer may capture their visage. 

“That’s the saddest family picture I’ve ever seen,” Kirk mutters over her shoulder. Nyota turns to him. He winks back at her as he sips his drink, “Open bar. Good decision.”

“Don’t do anything to make me regret that decision,” Nyota says. She sees the photographer look over and motion for her to come closer. Nyota grabs Kirk’s drink, finishes it, and begins moving forward. 

She stops in the place where her husband and his family previously stood, feeling bare and sad. Just as her eyes begin to feel wet and hot, Makena is at her side. When her sister had arrived this morning to prepare for the ceremony and reception, she had said simply, “It’s my sister’s wedding”. That had been all that matter to her Makena.

Kamau is not at the wedding either. He had said nothing when their parents had been ranting and he had said nothing when she called to ask him about his plans. He couldn’t even admit he agreed with them. 

Even her own cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents had taken her parent’s side against a man none of them even tried to know, for reasons that had nothing to do with Spock.

Nyota wraps her arms around Makena and smiles as best as she can. Her mouth is tight out of necessity and her face is warm. She hopes the photographer will be quick. 

“Damn it,” Kirk says. He must be drunk if he’s cursing like this. He pushes his way through the crowd and comes to stand behind her, his hands moving awkwardly across her form, searching for an appropriate place to hold on to. His hands eventually settle on her shoulders. He looks around for his crew, shouting their names, telling each in turn, “Get your ass over here.”

Then, it is not just Kirk, Makena, and Nyota. Bones is there with Hikaru, Carol, Scotty, Chekov, Marlene, Christine, Janice, and a dozen other crew members. The camera snaps but Kirk isn’t done. 

“Why in the hell are you taking pictures of the two separate families?” Kirk says, “Don’t you know what a wedding is for?” 

He yells in the worst Vulcan Nyota has ever heard for Spock, Sarek, and the other relatives to come back. They hesitate but finally Spock moves, Sarek follows, and the others eventually take their place again. The crew adjusts themselves and Nyota can only imagine how awkward the whole scene must look but she’s doesn’t care. 

Kirk moves and Spock is next to her, as it should be. 

“I want a copy of that one,” Kirk tells her as he walks off. 

Later, when he’s being a complete ass, she forgives him. 

.  
.  
.

That night when she is certain Spock is asleep, Nyota creeps away to the kitchen where she can’t be heard and calls her parents. Her father answers but she can’t bring herself to respond to his greeting. She uses the anonymous setting on her communicator and he demands to know who is calling several times before hanging up. 

She calls Makena next. Her sister’s voice is drowsy but she listens to her sister. 

“It wasn’t Spock,” Makena says, “Mama was just afraid that what happened to her would happen to you. You’re the first. They don’t know how to deal with this yet. They would have rejected anyone.”

“This wasn’t petty jealousy Mickey,” Nyota says, using her sister’s old nickname, “They hate him. And I don’t know why. Why? Can you just answer that, Mickey? Why do they hate this man I love?”

Her voice cracks on the last syllable and the tears she raged so hard against fall, mercilessly. Makena is silent because she knows that is what Nyota needs at that moment. There is no answer anyway.

“And what do I do if they never come around? What if they never apologize and accept him? They’re my parents. He’s my husband. There’s no winning.”

“They shouldn’t be doing this,” Makena says, her voice annoyed, “They’ve put you in an impossible situation and it’s completely unfair.”

Nyota’s mouth opens, ready to share the thoughts that have plagued her all afternoon: that this is somehow her fault and she is the wrong one. Makena is quicker though. 

“It’s not you,” Makena assures her. 

Above her, Nyota hears Spock moving. She feels him, searching for her in the darkness. She quickly says, “I need to go Makena. Thank you for what you did today. I love you.”

“Nyota,” Makena says before her sister hangs up, “If you love him, I love him, okay?”

“Okay,” Nyota whispers. She leaves the communicator in the basement and hurries back to her husband. He is half-asleep, his hair messy. When he sees her, he silently opens his arms and she moves to settle in them.


	7. Chapter 7

Nyota hears the sound of Bo’s wheelchair crunching across the grass behind her. She has cried all she can but she still rubs her raw eyes to hide any betraying moisture. Nyota turns and rises but Bo raises a hand to stop her from helping him. She sits back down and watches him. His muscles strain through his sleeves and by the time he is by her side, he is covered in a thin sweat but he finally pushes himself next to her.

Bo exhales, satisfied with himself. He looks up at her with a wide grin on his face which promptly fades when he sees her inflamed eyes.

“You did good,” Nyota says, waving her hand as if to brush away his concern, “You’re getting so strong. It makes me happy to see that.”

Bo reaches out to touch her cheek and to her own surprise, she feels more tears collecting around her eyes. Her lips quiver as she attempts to smile. She tries to speak but all words fail her. Instead, she reluctantly allows herself to grieve more.

It had taken her days, weeks to accept the truth but accepting it had brought her no peace. If anything, it had brought her even more pain.

“I had a little girl,” she whispers when she is finally able to. The words, as expected, inspire more tears. She reaches up to hold Bo’s wrist. He begins stroking her cheek with his thumb to wipe her tears away, “I had a little girl and I don’t know what happened to her.”

Bo pulls her towards him and she sinks into his embrace, resting his face against his shoulder. She worries briefly that she will ruin his shirt but even as they both feel the clothing under her face grow wet, he strokes her hair and she knows he doesn’t mind.

“Do you think she is alright?” Nyota says, lifting her face but not pulling away, “Who took care of her when I was gone? Who is her father? What did she look like? What did she become? Did she need me and I wasn’t there for her? What if - ”

“We’ll find her,” Bo says, rubbing circle on her back.

“I can’t even remember why I left her. My own child,” Nyota says, shaking her head, “Damn it, Bo! What did they do to us?”

“We’ll find her,” Bo says.

.

.

.

 

“Alright,” Nyota says, reading the list again in disbelief, “This is what I have for you. Stop me if I’m wrong. I have curse words, the letter ‘J’, elves, the color blue, some humming machines, and you being annoyed.”

Bo nods to each word she says.

“And this is what you remember from your past life?” Nyota says.

“Yeah,” Bo says.

“Okay,” Nyota says. She ponder each word, one at a time and then all together, and then nods, “I’m getting nothing from this, Bo. I’m sorry,” Nyota drops the list back on the table and rubs her eyes, “Maybe this was a bad idea. I’m sorry. I don’t think you’re going to get what I get from this.”

Bo shrugs, “That’s it. It is what it is.”

Nyota leans over and says, “Maybe you took care of fantastical creatures?”

Bo groans at her and she grins. Then he pulls the PADD over to himself, “Now you go.”

“My parents names were Alhamisi and M'Umbha. She had him wrapped around her finger. He adored her. And she was devoted to us. They were strict with us but we always knew they loved us,” Nyota says.

Bo is typing quickly, nodding with each word.

“Then there was my brother Kamau and my sister Makena. He was two years younger than me and she was five years younger than me. Kamau and I were partners in crime. Makena looked up to me. We adored each other. She grew up to be an astrophysicist and he was a journalist.”

“You had a happy childhood,” Bo concludes, “and a happy family.”

“I did. I know I did,” Nyota says. She doesn’t allow herself to think about what became of her family. They must be alive. She is receiving superlative care at the institute. Someone made sure she was taken care of.

Bo finishes writing, “What else do you know?”

“Nairobi University. It was what my parents wanted but it wasn’t right. Then Starfleet,” Nyota says, “Excitement. Possibilities. Friends. My roommate’s name was Gaila. She was crazy but so fun and we used to talk about anything. And others. For some, I just have their names. For others, I remember everything about. There was Max, Igor, Bellamy. They lived in my hall. Farai, Jim, Ami, Bronte, Pasha, Elisabeth, Yun. We had classes together. Aage, Abigail, Jemma, Arianna, Shania,  Ma’sud. We sang in the choir. Andela, Hikaru, Luisella. I ate lunch with them.” Nyota stops to catch her breath, “And we were all like minded and motivated to explore. It was . . . incomparable.”

Bo is not writing any more. Instead he is watching her with a sad look in his eyes.

“You’ll remember too,” Nyota says, “I’ll help.”

Bo mutters something under his breath that sounds like, “Taking too damn long.” Then he straightens in his chair and asks. “Anything else?”

“I fell in love there too,” Nyota says, “I fell in love with a man with dark brown eyes, a good heart, and a mind I’d never experienced before. He had sadness and I want to protect him with every fiber of my being. Everything about him was endlessly fascinating to me but for the life of me I can’t even remember his name or his face or if we ever even married each other. I just know he loved me back and that when I discovered that, it was . . .” Nyota waves her hand. There is no point even trying to put it in words.

“Was he her father?” Bo asks.

“Yes. I mean, more than likely,” Nyota says rubbing her nose, “I’m no fool. I mean, who finds that more than once?”

“Sounds dreamy,” Bo says. She watches him write the words ‘Tall, dark, and handsome?’ and it makes her laugh for the first time in days. Bo smiles but he is nodding, prompting her to continue.

“And that’s it. Nothing else is coming back to me. And I’m trying, Bo. I really am. Just last night, I stayed up and I went through every name that I could think of,” Nyota says, “None of them fit. I have memories but I don’t know if there really of them or if I just want them to be of them so badly I’m making them up.”

Nyota lays her heavy head on the table. Bo rubs her back, his palm pressing into her back muscles soothingly. He leans close to see her face and she shakes her head.

“I’m not crying again. I don’t have any of that left.”

“Tired?” Bo asks. When she nods, he says, “Me too, baby. Me too.”

Nyota shudders for some reason when he say that but she can’t place why. Perhaps it is simply cold. She brushes it off.

“I don’t want to be here anymore,” Nyota says, scrunching her nose.

“Makes two of us,” Bo says, “When we get out of here, you and me are going on a trip.”

“Absolutely,” Nyota says, her eyes widening, “Can we go to Rome? San Francisco? Toronto? Can we go off-planet?”

“We can go wherever the hell we want,” Bo says.

“Yeah. I like that,” Nyota says, biting her lip, “I have a really stupid idea. Do you want to hear it?”

“Always,” Bo says.  

“When Dr. Kimathi gets back, I think we should both have her personally direct our treatment.”

“Why?”

“I can’t explain it. I just have this feeling she knows things about me, about all of us. And she in charge of everything. If anyone could move things along faster, it’s her,” Nyota says, “The sooner we know, the sooner we can go find them.”

Bo’s eyes darkened but he nods. He has people, places, and things he needs to remember too.

.

.

.

 

Weeks later, she hears whispers. Dr. Kimathi is returning to the Institute. Charges were filed. There were court hearings. Deals were made. There are many stories told to Nyota and she chooses not to believe any of them. Not because she is naive and believe Dr. Kimathi is good. Instead, she wants the truth and only the truth.

When she hears Dr. Kimathi has arrived, she walks straight to the doctor’s office. There are several other people waiting, watching the closed door, including Bo. Nyota goes to stand behind him. 

Several minutes pass. No one dares to knock on the door. Nyota moves from behind Bo, her hand reaching for the knob when she and the others in the hall hear loud, clear screaming.

“Even now you’re lying. I saw the video, mother. I saw proof and you expect me to believe what you say? After what you did?” The speaker sound like a woman but it is not the doctor.

“Thandie - ” Dr. Kimathi says.

“No. Stop. I did what I did. I cannot take that back. It was for me. Know that. So I wouldn’t see you in jail. I will do nothing more. Do you hear me? Nothing more.”

Someone grabs the handle and shakes it but before it opens, Nyota hears Dr. Kimathi again, “Please, Thandie. Please. Let me explain.”

The door flies open. Nyota jumps back but Thandie does not see her. She is still looking at her mother, “I have always, always honored you. And you used me. And you used my children like they were nothing to you. For a woman you don’t even know.”

Thandie turns and is abruptly facing Nyota. The woman is angry, with the kind of anger one wants to take out on anyone unlucky enough to be in their way. Thandie grinds her teeth so hard Nyota can hear enamel on enamel before she says, her voice raised, “Excuse me, please.”

Nyota ducks out of the way.

“Thank you,” Thandie says, passing her. She calls back over her shoulder, “Bonifacio. Graciana. Now.”

Another woman immediately followed Thandie out of Dr. Kimathi’s office. A man hesitates at the door, watching inside before following as well. Nyota sees him pass. It is her technician. The technician sees her and gives her a sympathetic look before Thandie pulls him and Graciana away.

Nyota watches them leave. The other patients who had been waiting out in the hall are gone, even Bo, scared off by the screaming. Nyota leans across the frame to look into the office. Dr. Kimathi is at her desk by the window, resting on her cross arms. Nyota is about to leave when Dr. Kimathi calls her.

“Come in Nyota,” Dr. Kimathi calls. Nyota pauses but Dr. Kimathi adds, “I saw you there. Come Nyota. It’s alright.”

Nyota enters the office, suddenly shy. She says, mostly to fill the silence, “How are you?”

Dr. Kimathi makes a face, “Don’t bother yourself with my problems, please. Are you well?”

Nyota nods, crushing down her curiosity for the sake of more expedient matters and out of respect, “I am well.”

Dr. Kimathi nods, “Good. I’m glad. Did you want something?”

Nyota has an entire speech prepared, “I would like you to be the one who treats me. I know you may be conflicted because we are close but please don’t make your decision until you hear my reasons.”

“I don’t need reasons,” Dr. Kimathi say, interrupting her, “We can continue. You’ve waited long enough. I’m done being conservative.”

“Oh,” Nyota says. The doctor’s response is unnerving but it is what she wants to hear so she tucks her fear away, “Alright.”

“We can start now,” Dr. Kimathi says. She stands, walking to join her in the hall, “Come on. Let’s go. There is no time like the present.”

Nyota is still confused by the sudden turn of events but Dr. Kimathi is unfazed. She take Nyota’s hand and pulls her along.

.

.

.

Nyota’s rubs the flesh of her upper arms which still aches from the injections Dr. Kimathi gave her. “This is a neural stimulant mixed with some hormones and other chemicals,” Dr. Kimathi had said, “It is a new treatment. Go back to your room and go to sleep. That is all.”

She feels drowsy but her mind is still busy. Nyota touches her head where a metal band is wrapped around the crown of her forehead. She is supposed to sleep with it on. She is not tired but her head is heavy and she is dizzy so she lays down.

Dr. Kimathi’s grandson was her technician. She would never have guessed. Perhaps that requires further questioning? Perhaps. The room is spinning. Her thoughts feel like they have been dropped in sludge. What requires further questioning again? Perhaps?

Strange. She felt normal a minute ago. Right? Maybe.

“Your name is Nyota Uhura. You were born and raised in Nairobi, Kenya. Your parents were professors at the university,” Dr. Kimathi had said earlier. Her statements had felt more like a test, “Your sister was a scientist. Your brother wrote articles on governments and court cases. You went to Starfleet after you graduated from Nairobi University. Then what happened?”

“I’m not sure,” Nyota had said back. Her eyes had felt like they were on fire.

Dr. Kimathi had not liked that response. She had done something to the intravenous bag linked into Nyota’s arm and a moment later, Nyota’s head had pounded. Still, no memories came.

“I can’t do it for you,” Dr. Kimathi had said. The doctor’s eyes had been furious, so angry Nyota had been afraid. Dr. Kimathi changed the intravenous again and Nyota’s head stopped aching and her eyes cooled.

Now here she was. Floating on a cloud. No. She was on a bed. Right? Or perhaps a cloud-bed? What was a cloud-bed? What had the doctor told her again? Kamau was her sister and Makena was her brother. Her parents were professors. Why do her hands feel so cold? What was Starfleet again?

Her mind is racing but her body is tired. She closes her eyes but sleep doesn’t come. Yet, for reasons she cannot fathom, she is now in a glass box. Is she asleep? No. She couldn’t fall asleep. What was in that injection Dr. Kimathi gave her?

Strange. She was lying down before and now she is standing. Strange. Now Bo is next to her. Why is Bo in her room? Then she see Kamau and Makena in the corner. She and Makena took after their grandmother but Nyota and Kamau had the same eyes. Nyota tries to speak to them but her mouth wouldn’t move and now her siblings are gone.

Nyota can swear she hears her parent’s voice now. Her mother’s soprano and her father’s baritone. They are lecturing her. Nyota leaves.

Someone is pulling her. That someone is Gaila. “Did I show you the transducer I made?” Someone else passes them. It is Kirk. Gaila winks at him as she pulls Nyota along. “Come on, I want to show you.” Gaila yanks her and they are running across the quad. Faces pass them. Some she knows. Sterling, her tutee. Garrison, the boy who made up anagrams with her. Sheila, the girl who cheated off her in first year.

There were late nights. He had been intelligent and that is what had first appealed to her but then there had been more. She shouldn’t have pursued him but her reasons had seemed superficial when she held him in her arms. She begins to feel his heavy gaze on her, the beautiful set of his lips, and his presence in her mind, warm and gentle.

It’s coming back. Distant. Unclear. Details unspecific but the beginning of the next part. Distress call. A burning planet. A crashing ship. Frequencies. That had been her job. Kirk again but this time she’s proud. A man with brown eyes. He is broken and she can barely stand it. The man had needed her. What can she do? Nothing but everything. It will take time but she will stay. Always. They will make it through together. The man is still broken. He cannot handle his pain. The ship is falling again. There is pain and sadness but joy and love too. She still wants to stay. What was his name?

Her vision blurs but she sees a communication board before her. She knows what every button does. Words pass her ears. She knows them all. Each one is a character, a story of itself. She knows the words but fails to recognize them.

“Mama. Mother. Ko-mekh.” That is what the girl had called her. The one with the hazel eyes. Nyota’s grandfather, her mother’s father, had hazel eyes and Nyota’s child by some strange improbability had hazel eyes too. Dark gold with a jagged ring of green around the iris. That’s what the girl’s eyes had looked like. “You are excellent as you are. I love you. You are perfect to me.” The girl knew this but she needed reminded, often.

Nyota’s head aches. The girl is banging on a window separating them. She hears her. “You will be fine. You will survive this, Amandla-kam.” The man is back. He looks broken again. He tries to pull the girl away, so she cannot see, but she resists. Nyota’s world goes silent, painfully silent. She awaken, their names on her lips.

.

.

.

Nyota is sweaty, her head aching and her nose bleeding. She pulls off the band around her forehead and rushes to clean herself. She watches herself in the mirror. The memories are still with her. Bo. She will share them with Bo, just in case she forgets. She runs. He is waiting for her in the garden, watching the water flow down the fountain, as he is always does in the morning.

“Her name is Amandla. She is my only child. She is six years old. Spock was her father. He’s sad but I make his eyes smile. I spoke dozens of languages. Not one. Not ten. Dozens. Can you believe that?” Her words bleed into each other and Bo looks confused.

“What?” Bo says.

“Spock was the love of my life. And Amandla was smart, Bo, so very smart. And kind, just like her father. They loved me so much and it was the best gift I was ever given. The three of us, we were so happy,” Nyota says, grabbing his chair and pushing him back into the Institute, “I remember. I remember everything.”

.

.

.

“You were right. Amandla Grayson Uhura. Born February 27. Place of Birth: The USS Enterprise. Weight: 3.04 kilograms. Height: 50.8 centimeters,” Dr. Kimathi reads, “On the small side but in good health. Mother and father were entirely enamored.”

With that, Dr. Kimathi passes a PADD to Nyota with a picture of little girl with hazel eyes and thick braids sitting in the lap of a man. Nyota takes the PADD and holds it tightly, her fingertips turning white. There is something so familiar about their faces but at the same time, the picture is not right. She cannot say how, but there is something amiss.

Dr. Kimathi’s eyes are lingering over Nyota’s head. Her mouth, which had been in a tight line as Nyota had described her night, has curved into a wide grin. Nyota swears the other woman is tearing up.

“Amandla and Spock,” Nyota repeats. The words fit easily in their place as if they were never gone. If she closes her eyes, she can still see her daughter’s eyes and hear her husband’s voice. Yes. Amandla. Spock.

“In Zulu, her name meant ‘power’,” Dr Kimathi says, her voice cracking. Nyota looks up at her but Dr. Kimathi waves away the concern, despite the tear streaming down her cheek, “Forgive me. I’m thinking about my own children.”

“Have you spoken to Thandie?” Nyota asks. The doctor’s eyes flash at this and Nyota quickly adds, “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”

“No,” Dr. Kimathi says, “No. It’s fine. I’ve called several times but she wouldn’t pick up. My other children and my grandchildren don’t know what is going on and are very confused. It is a mess.”

“You’re her mother. She will forgive you,” Nyota says. Her thought turn briefly to her own daughter but she forces away the painful ideas that are rising up.

“She has every right to be angry with me,” Dr. Kimathi says, “She’s always right, just like her father. It’s very annoying.”

“I hope she comes around,” Nyota says, “I hope she hears you.”

“I cannot change what I have done,” Dr. Kimathi says, watching Nyota, “I can only hope she can eventually understand.”

Nyota knows nothing else about Dr. Kimathi’s daughter so she simply give her friend a sympathetic smile.

Dr. Kimathi smiles back and picks up her PADD to write down some notes. Nyota fidgets in her seat, craning her neck to see the PADD’s screen. Dr. Kimathi sees and turns it away from Nyota.

Nyota leans forward in her chair, “What else is in the file?”

“Many things,” Dr. Kimathi says, “Information about your family. Your work. Your life. Very detailed, I might add.”

“Can I read it?” Nyota asks.

“No,” Dr. Kimathi says, “But I’ll make sure you remember every detail in time, I promise.”

“Okay,” Nyota says, “I trust you.”

She did. She doesn’t really have a choice.

Dr. Kimathi finishes making her notes, then places the PADD on the table between them. She leans on her hand, studying Nyota for a moment, looking as if she is deliberating. Finally she says, “I wish to give more direct information, Nyota. Are you amiable?”

“What kind of information?”

“This is something I need you to know to continue. I will not mince words Nyota. You were unaware of the process the first time but now you must understand,” Dr. Kimathi says, “This will be much more difficult than before but I think it could provide invaluable insight.”

“It is essential?” Nyota asks.

“Absolutely,” Dr. Kimathi says, “Given its nature, I would not provide you with this recollection if it were any other way.”

“What is it?” Nyota asks.

Dr. Kimathi leans in, hesitating for an instant longer, before she says,“I want you to remember how you died.


	8. Chapter 8

“I think Fanatical Four is cheap shot, that’s all,” Hasna says, “Don’t get me wrong. We’re out there but they could have done better.”

 

Dr. M’Ballah is adjusting the patient’s endotracheal tube but she makes an agreeable noise which is almost drowns out by the sound of her own stomach rumbling. They had been in the OR for nearly thirteen hours now, right on schedule. Amandla had jokingly demanded that Imani have a feast waiting for them when they were finished but Imani had not been amused.

 

Imani did not understand. Or maybe she was angry even if she should be used to Amandla’s stubbornness by now.

 

“I agree. We should be the Freaky Four. The Fabulous Four. The Fine Four,” Amandla says.

 

Chiang makes an exaggerated gasp, “If I get us temporary tattoos that say ‘Fine Four’, will you all wear them?”

 

“Absolutely,” Hasna says, “I would put it right on my forehead. And why stop there? Let’s get 17% put right next to it.”

 

“17%?” M’Ballah asks, “Who gave you that number? It’s very liberal.”

 

“T’Tal,” Hasna says. “Our little cheerleader. A true friend who would lie to give us confidence.”

 

“I calculated our chances of success at 9%,” Amandla says.  

 

“Ah,” Chiong says, “We should be the Foolish Four.”

 

No one speaks after she says that. On the monitor, Amandla sees that she has come to the crucial junction.

 

“I’m ready,” Hasna says, “I’m here, Amandla.”

 

“I know,” Amandla replies. They don’t need to be told but she adds, “I need complete silence, please.”

 

Everything around her seems to pause and in the stillness, there is a certain simplicity which allows her to focus on the task before her. Amandla knows M’Ballah’s eyes are locked on the values which will be their first indicators of failure or success. Behind her, she can hear that Chiong stands taller now, her hand making a sound when she rests it on the metal of the crash cart, even though having resuscitation equipment would not save them, not this time.

 

She makes the first cut and the rest of the world immediately fades away. She can’t hear anything, not even the sound of her own heart beating, or see anything, beyond the open skull in front of her and the tumor nestled against the patient’s brain stem.

 

Numbers don’t matter. There was a clear dichotomy here. This is what she had always appreciated about her craft.

 

She had been warned. Everyone who had been consulted on this case had advised her not to operate. The chances of success were simply too low. The administrators had not been supportive. They had only allowed her to proceed after she had sworn to take full responsibility for the outcome.

 

There had been so many forms to sign. She had been forced to perform the operation in a private clinic. If there was a lawsuit or any kind of sanctioning, neither the university nor any hospital would suffer. It would be her name that would be tarnished.

 

And her team’s name would be tarnished. There was no one to switch out with. Only these three individuals had been willing to assist her. Amandla takes a moment, to appreciate that the women around her were willing to join her in this endeavour. Emboldened by their confidence, Amandla reaches for her next tool.

 

This was her curse. She could not remember a time when this impulse had not been present.

 

Amandla’s incision continues. She moves so slowly, so carefully, it seems as if she is barely touching the equipment. She waits, certain something will slip out of the narrow margin, something will begin to bleed, and probability will triumph.

 

Then, without pomp or circumstance, she is finished. She slips past the tiny segment of neural tissue which had posed such a threat to them. She takes a breath.

 

There is a double sided mirror on the wall behind her. She can hear someone murmuring on the other side of the glass. She hadn’t looked to see who would be in the next room. She didn’t want anything to distract her. She can guess who is watching her though.

 

Amandla is tired, so weary she feels as if her very bones will collapse and she allows herself a brief moment to indulge herself. She has the attention she wants. Let them see her defiance. This is only the beginning, the foundation on which she will build. She is capable of doing things they would never even think of trying to do. She has the means. Now, she only needs a name to stand on.

 

The rest of the surgery proceeds without issue. Hasna takes the tumor away when the patient is freed from it. It will go to the pathology department. Chiong begins doing her charting on the procedure and the outcome. M’Ballah looks away from the monitor, just long enough to quip, “The Foolish Four. Let’s go with the Foolish Four.”

 

When she is finished, Amandla allows herself one smug look. She hopes whoever is behind the mirror sees.

 

9%. 17%. The likelihood had meant nothing in the end.

 

This is just another drop in the well. She is that much closer to what she wants. Perhaps she could alter the past. Perhaps she could change an impossibility.

 

Out in the hall, her colleague Dr. Aguta is waiting for her. He and Amandla are well acquainted. He sits on the university review board and he can always be counted on to reject her proposals. He sighs when he sees her and says, in a sleepy tone, “Young Amandla. Always so reckless.”

 

Amandla shrugs, mimicking the bored posture of the man in front of her, “You never win or fail if you don’t even bother trying. I suppose you wouldn’t know anything about that, what with you refusing this case before it came to me.”

 

Dr. Aguta gives her a saccharine smile. “I have a question for you. How can you even stand upright when you carry around such an inflated ego?”

 

“Twenty,” Amandla replies without thinking. She is still fatigued, still unable to hide her own thoughts.

 

“Twenty. What does that mean?” Dr. Aguta asks.

 

“Twenty was how old I was when I earned my joint MD/PhD degree. It's also the number of times I've effectively performed a surgery others deemed to have a less than 1% chance of success. I'd give you the number of awards I've earned for my skills or the number for how many times I've been published and lauded by my colleagues but it's much more than 20. I didn't inflate my ego. My success did that for me.”

 

“Imagine if everyone in the world were a little more like you,” Dr. Aguta says, “What chaos that would be.”

 

Amandla turns away from him. Chairman Jalloh has just emerged from the observation room.

 

“Chairman,” Amandla says, “What do you think?”

 

“Very good,” the Chairman responds. Coming from him, this is highest of praises.

 

“I would like to meet with you soon,” Amandla says.

 

The Chairman shakes his head. She has not been subtle. He knows exactly what she wants to discuss. He says, “I’ll have my secretary call you.”

 

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.

.

 

“How was your vacation?”

 

That was the inquiry which multiple crew members had made to him. Perhaps they were shocked at the thought of him taking leave. He had not taken personal time for many years, seven years to be specific, and his reason for going then had been the same as it was this time.

 

He couldn’t remember, to his own relief. He had allowed the madness to overwhelm all of his senses. He only recalls, after, that the priestess who he had paid to alleviate his needs had been extremely professional but he still felt shame.

 

Three days after he had returned in the Enterprise, in a moment of weakness, he had tried to reach out to her. It was not something he allowed himself to do often but when he did, he was always brief and he always looked for the same thing.

 

It was night time on Earth and he thought she would be asleep. She was not.

 

His daughter was sitting on her old purple couch. Nearby, a single lamp on a table is the sole source of light. Amandla had a substantial income but she had never had extravagant tastes. The worn suede is comfortable and she is curled up in a comforter, cradling Danae in the crook of her arm, holding a breathing mask so that his grandchild can receive a treatment with her nebulizer.

 

Amandla always had trouble sleeping, an unforeseen side effect of the procedure which had implanted a therapeutic device into her cerebral cortex. An overexerted arousal system, they had explained to him. She does not notice his presence at first. She is holding her PADD in her spare hand and editing an article.

 

She is well. They are both well.

 

Danae recognizes him first. She shifts in her mother’s arms, her consciousness brushing against him. There is a spark of curiosity but the child makes no effort to alert her mother to his company. It is almost as if she is studying him.

 

Amandla yawns, resting her chin on Danae’s head. The joints in her legs ache. Her thoughts are clouded by fatigue. He wonders how long it has been since she last slept.

 

He should not remain but he lingers. Amandla had once found comfort in her mother’s arms as Danae does now.

 

The treatment ends abruptly. The gentle hum of the nebulizer stops and Amandla rouses. Her grasp on the PADD tightens, she blinks her eyes several times, and she becomes aware of her father’s presence. She forces him out of her mind and he is alone again, in his dark, silent bedroom. The metal of the floor is frigid on his feet. He hears the drone of the warp core but nothing else.

 

He remembers his wife most clearly at night. Sleep, in particular, brings the fragments of his memories together. Her gentle, reverent touch, her sincere words, her loving eyes become more than memory when it is dark and nothing can distract his thoughts. She is there until she is not and he is awakens to find the reassuring breath on his neck is no more than the cold air of his empty living space.

 

They had once been whole.

 

He does not do so often but he goes to Nyota. Her world is ephemeral now. Sensations pass by and he quickly forgets them. She feels nothing and thinks of nothing. There are no memories, no hopes for the future. There is only stasis of her mind and of her body.

 

It had been Captain Kirk’s idea to keep them, in a room that was never seen. Few were even willing to remember its existence. Guilt was what kept them there. They had given their lives to their cause. Such sacrifice deserved recognition and this was their only means of honoring their lost colleagues. They could not survive outside of their false tombs but there was very little about their current existence that suggested they were alive. They did not eat. They did not sleep. The brains were mostly intact but they had no thoughts.

 

He reaches out to her. His wife. Nyota. K'diwa. He feels her like gentle touch on one’s skin. There is no response, of course.

 

He did what he had to do to survive his time but he regrets his action. The act had once been a pleasure, something which fulfilled and sustained him. Now it is a task. He eats to live, he sleeps to function at his work, and meditations to keep calm because that is what his instincts demand he does, no matter how much he wishes to defy them.

 

.

.

.

 

From the moment she sees the dying cell on her screen that dark night in the lab, she is consumed. Fortunately, for her own sanity, everything, in its time, comes into place. She masters the formula of synthetic enzymes, biochemicals, and other molecules which tricks the nature of nervous cells. In short order, she has experiments prepared, completed and cross checked by various colleagues, papers are published, and the attention and resources she needs to proceed arrive. Some are impressed with her when she reaches the stage where animal trial can occur in a matter of years where most projects take decades to advance to a similar level of achievement. Others know better. The most important part is after that, of course, and she doesn’t take well to wasted time.

 

Their first patient, the first mammal they perform their procedure on, is a rat Amandla has been raising specifically for their purpose. The Rattus norvegicus weighs 350 grams, is 25 centimeters long, and has a unique silver coat. After his birth, the rat had suffered a brain bleed which had resulted in left hemiparesis.

 

Very much against her own intentions, everyone that works in the laboratory comes to adore the animal.

 

Amandla calls the specimen Muroidea, after his superfamily classification. Absolutely no one else does. One morning, a few months after his birth, Muroidea escaped from his cage and was found several hours later, climbing the curtains in Dr. Nguyen’s office and then leaping from the top rod onto the couch before repeating the process over and over again. It was ridiculous to contemplate but it appeared that the rat was enjoying himself.

 

“My office is not a playground for hamsters!” Dr. Nguyen had screeched, after finding Muroidea and after she had finally stopped screaming.

 

M’Ballah and Imani had found the mistaken identification endlessly amusing and from then on, Muroidea was called “Hamster” or “Hammy” for short. Hasna, in particular, was fond of pointing out the animal and pretending to be very concerned when an ignorant party pointed out that the animal was a rat.

 

Danae, who had discovered the rat on one of her visits with Taka to the lab, was prone to calling him her best friend. When she heard that her mother was going to use the animal as her first test subject, Danae insisted they call Commander Spock.

 

“I want him to see the rat that’s going to make you famous,” Danae says. Amandla doesn’t respond, just as she hadn’t responded when Danae had talked incessantly about the strange presence they had both felt that night in the living room, a presence they both recognized.

 

They make the call the night before the scheduled procedure. Danae has Hammy in her arms and in order to see the screen, she has to sit in Amandla’s lap.  

 

“He’s very smart, grandpa, and so talented,” Danae tells Commander Spock. Out of the corner of her eye, Amandla can see her father is looking at her daughter, in that way that he does, where his eyes smile but the rest of his face is somber. Amandla turns her attention back to the surgical simulation on the PADD in her hand. She has been preparing for the surgery for weeks now but each time she goes over the process, she feels that much calmer.

 

“Talented?” Commander Spock asks.

 

“Look, he can spin around if I tell him too and shake hands and walk on his feet like a person and jump and fetch things,” Danae says. She puts the rat on the table and shows her grandfather all the tricks the lab staff had taught the rat. Amandla can see why the animal is so popular. He is obedient and charming like a dog. At one point in Danae’s display, the rat tumbles up Amandla’s arm and onto her shoulder where he sits, poking his wet nose into Amandla’s ear.

 

Amandla’s mouth twitches but she does not look up from the simulation. She is a bit fond of the rat too, if she would ever admit to such a thing. She picks the rat up by the tail and puts it back in front of Danae.

 

“He’s so great, right?” Danae says.

 

“Brilliant as you are, Danae,” Commander Spock says, “and as your mother is.”

 

Danae grins, leaning back in Amandla’s embrace and wrapping her arm around her mother’s neck. Amandla does not turn her attention to the screen which displays her father’s face. She has reached an important junction in her simulation.

 

“Mom is going to make his limp go away. She gave him a shot with a virus in it and tomorrow she’s going to open his skull and fix his brain,” Danae says.

 

Commander Spock nods, watching Amandla who immerses herself even more into her PADD. He must know. There had been over a dozen articles written on the subject, a few in very prominent journals. He had likely seen the slight lack of coordination in Hammy’s left limbs when the rat has been crawling about on the table. Hammy had been very young when he had sustained his brain injury and there had been a generous degree of elasticity to compensate for the trauma but it was still noticeable. It was not hard to guess what Danae was talking about.

 

If he survived, he would live a long and happy life. Amandla had promised Danae that she would bring the rat home and Hammy would live out his days as a pet. If he survived.

 

Hammy was so small, they would be using lasers for incisions. Anesthesia would be measured in micrograms. The entire process was somewhat absurd when looked at from the outside yet Amandla cannot think about the outcome without feeling both cold panic and painfully hopeful.

 

“I believe I should bid you farewell then Danae. Your mother needs her rest,” Commander Spock says.

 

“Goodbye grandpa. We’ll see you in November,” Danae says. Amandla reaches to turn off the communicator but Danae slaps her hand and adds, “You didn’t say goodbye, mom.”

 

Amandla pauses but only for a moment. She looks up at Commander Spock. He is still smiling with only his eyes but when he sees her gaze on him, the smile fades. Jaw clenched tightly at his sudden change in expression, Amandla snaps, “Bye.” Then she shut off the communicator before he can respond.

 

It takes longer than usual to close down the lab that night. Danae wants to know what everything is and touch all the things that she shouldn’t touch. Amandla doesn’t mind. Taka was visiting his sister Imani and her wife. For once, Amandla didn’t feel guilty knowing her husband was at home with their child while she was at the lab.  

 

“Can we take Hammy home with us? I don’t want him to get scared about his surgery and not have anyone there to support him,” Danae says.

 

Danae visibly steadies herself, ready to argue, but Amandla immediately says yes. She knows she shouldn’t but she cannot help herself. Like most only children, Danae can be a tyrant. They don’t spoil her with things though, Taka had seen to that. What Danae wanted most was attention and it was nearly impossible for Amandla to ever find fault with giving her daughter that.

 

“Tight, mom,” Danae says as Amandla fastens the seatbelt around Hammy's cage. She groans loudly and reaches out to fix the straps the moment Amandla is finished with them. “You know I don’t think this seat is meant for a rat cage. I can’t figure this out either. We’ll just have to drive slowly and I’ll hold onto him.”

 

“I will drive slowly but first can you put your own seat belt on?” Amandla asks. She bites the inside of her cheek to keep herself from smiling. She can see so many of her own eccentricities in this child’s personality.

 

Danae wouldn’t appreciate the smile. She would think her mother was teasing her. The little girl glances, as expected, before securing her own seat belt.

 

Once, when Amandla was young and strange herself, she had been comforted. Those words are gone now, as distant a memory as the one who had spoken them. Now, all Amandla can think to do is keep a straight face and not say anything. She sees her reflection in the back window and cannot help but think her expression is severe.

 

“You’re not mad, are you?” Danae asks.

 

“Of course not,” Amandla says, settling in the driver’s seat, “I’m sorry if I sounded angry. I’m a little tired. It’s not you.”

 

“You felt mad when we were talking to grandpa,” Danae says. She looks up and quickly adds, “I mean, you sounded mad.”

 

Amandla looks sharply at Danae in the rearview mirror, “We’ve talked about this. You shouldn’t go into people’s minds without their permission.”

 

“I can’t help it. I accidentally touch other people all the time. It’s like breathing. I forget it’s there,” Danae says, “How do you stop it?”

 

“I count to a hundred by prime numbers,” Amandla says. It’s not a lie. She usually does pull away immediately and if she can’t, she can block the connection. If she wants to be in another’s mind, however, she is not such a shining example. Of course those people, one in particular, don’t mind her being there.

 

Danae is quiet as they leave the university. Then, she says, “Can I tell you something?”

 

“Go ahead,” Amandla says, “I’m listening.”

 

“Being able to do this is interesting now. You must feel the same way,” Danae says. When Amandla doesn’t speak, she continues, “I didn’t care when I was little but now, I don’t know. It’s fun. You feel emotions and sensations that aren’t your own. I know what Chichi feels when he looks at me. His love for me is like warm tea on a cold day. I see it in his eyes. He loves me and I know what that feels like for him. It’s incredible. Don’t you think so?”

 

Amandla knows exactly what Danae is talking about. Her mother’s love had been like falling asleep in the arms of someone she knew would protect her. Nyota Uhura had never been one to shy away from Amandla. There had never been secrets between them, no barriers. Commander Spock was different. If he had allowed Amandla into his mind, it was an accident. A glancing touch after Amandla had hurt herself or a gentle kiss when he thought Amandla was asleep. Those brief glimpses could never be forgotten though.

 

“It feels like something that fulfills you. Like something that takes takes away all the emptinesses you didn’t know you had,” Amandla says.

 

“Yeah,” Danae says, “And I can’t stopped there. Remember when I used to run across the street and hug the neighbors when they were tending to their gardens or putting out the trash? Or kiss my classmates on the hand and pretend like I was a southern gentleman? Or when I pinched a teacher’s cheek and calls her a "doll" like I saw that character do on an ancient television show and you had to have that parent-teacher conference? I wasn’t playing. I just wanted to see what it was like in their minds.”

 

“Is that what you were doing?” Amandla says, “Danae, you really shouldn’t - ”

 

“I don’t anymore,” Danae says, “Most people are not interesting. My classmates have only simple emotions, ones I know about already. The neighbors and my teacher were just shocked.”

 

“It’s good that you stopped,” Amandla says.

 

She sees Danae biting her lip just before she blurts out, “I didn’t stop all the way though. A couple weeks ago, I ran through a group of teenagers in the park so I could brush against their hands and I felt this strange warm pressure between my legs and I had no idea what it was. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

 

Amandla gaps, “Well. In a few years, you will go through puberty and - ”

 

“So, its sex stuff?” Danae says, “Lust or whatever? I thought so. But yesterday, when I was waiting for Chichi to pick me up from school, I got to experience something really interesting. There was this old lady dressed in white and carrying flowers and she sat next to me on a bed in the park and when I rubbed my hand against hers, it felt like I was falling into a dark hole.”

 

“Danae, I know it’s tempting but you can’t do that. There are parts of people that are sacred and you can’t just intrude on those parts. If people give themselves to you, that’s one thing but what you’re doing is bad,” Amandla says, “Do you understand?”

 

“Yes,” Danae says, “It was just like unwrapping a present though. I never knew what I would find. Sometimes it would be good. Sometimes it would be bad. It was exciting. I couldn’t help it.”

 

“How would you feel if someone were reading your thoughts without your permission, Danae?”

 

“I know. I’ll stop,” Danae says.

 

“Good,” Amandla says, not quite believing her.

 

They are both quiet for the rest of the ride. When they arrive at the house, Amandla helps Danae put Hammy’s cage next to Danae’s bed. Then she goes to brush her teeth and prepare for sleep.

 

Taka still isn’t home. The house is quiet and Amandla can feel her mind wandering back to the simulation until she hears Danae talking to the rat, comforting him, “I know you want something to eat but you can’t have anything but clear liquids after midnight and then at 1000, you’ll be NPO or no per os, which means nothing by mouth. It’s for safety. Don’t worry about it though. The risk of aspiration is very low with current anesthesia. It’s mostly tradition at this point. Auntie Imani says surgeons are very traditional until definitively proven otherwise, which is usually never.”

 

“Danae, are you ready for bed?” Amandla calls.

 

“Yes,” Danae yells back. Then Amandla hears Danae adds, “My mom is the best, Hammy. Everything is going to be fine. I know it.”

 

Amandla wipes her face. She’s not religious but she hopes to whatever higher powers may be that the damn rat survives.

 

“Time to sleep,” Amandla says. Danae put her favorite blanket over Hammy’s cage and tosses herself into her bed.

 

“Good night mom,” Danae says.

 

“Good night,” Amandla says. As is her ritual, she pushes away her thoughts of the operation and counts: _one, two, three, five, seven . ._ then she kisses Danae’s forehead.

 

Danae is not so careful. Amandla catches a brief glimpse of what is on Danae’s mind. Her daughter is thinking of a person in white scrubs, under the bright lights. It is not an unfamiliar image. Amandla has stumbled upon it in the past, unintentionally, of course.

 

There is a part of her that wants to ask Danae if she feels small and insignificant. Why else would she be obsessed with her mother in this singular way? It had taken Amandla years to grasp the scope of her skills but in the end, all of it had become insignificant to her. Outsiders though, were never of the same mind. They would never understand that in many ways, it was simply a means to an end that she couldn’t articulate. It was really not grand gesture or a saintly act for her in any way.

 

“Can I ask one last question?” Danae murmurs, glancing at Hammy’s cage as her mother reaches to turn down the lights.

 

“Sure,” Amandla says, yawning.

 

“Why does grandfather hate himself?” Danae asks, laying down in her bedding, “I thought perhaps it was you who despised him but that’s not true, is it? He loathes himself and he doesn’t hide it. You feel it. I feel it. It’s almost impossible to ignore.”

 

Amandla bites her tongue. She didn’t hate her father. She pitied him, she was frustrated by him, and she wished they were close as they once had been, but she had never hated him. Yet, she couldn’t remember a time when she could look at her father and not feel his painful bitterness. It was suffocating, made all other emotions seem distant and untouchable. It was a shame that Danae felt it too.

 

“Sometimes, we have to do things which we don’t want to do, things we have a hard time forgiving ourselves for doing,” Amandla says, “Commander Spock had to do things for me when I was little that he can’t forget about. It was hard for him. It’s still hard for him.”

 

“What kind of things?” Danae asks.

 

“When I was six, I became very sick. Your grandmother was very sick too. He had to make decisions. We both had to leave him,” Amandla says, “One day, when you’re older, I’ll tell you what happened but not tonight. Tonight I have to sleep for Hammy, okay?”

 

“Okay,” Danae says, “You’ll call me right? The minute you know if Hammy is going to survive or not?”

 

“Of course,” Amandla says.

 

She keeps that promise. Danae is the first person to know when the procedure is successful. The second is the Chairman. He schedules a meeting with Amandla for the following day to discuss human trials.

 

.

.

.

 

Amandla rubs the skin just beneath her left wrist. Pressure points, Imani had said, which if stimulated properly, calmed one’s “internal condition”. It’s pointless, of course. It doesn’t and wouldn’t do anything to diminish the burning panic rooted in her stomach, which had been progressing throughout the day. Fortunately, there are no windows in the hall which might show the endlessness of space which is just outside these thin, fragile walls and she can’t hear the warp core over the music playing. Amandla holds her breath to calm her heartbeat.

 

Commander Spock is staring at her. She can see him out of the corner of her eye. Amandla straightens in her chair, pushing her shoulders back, pointing her chin forward, before she turns to face him. Her face is a neutral mask.

 

Commander Spock’s arms close around his lower back at her expression. He nods minutely at her. Amandla scoffs in spite of herself, throwing herself back into her chair. Why wouldn’t he just ask what he wants to ask?

 

She feels an arms slipping across her shoulder. Amandla opens her eyes to smile at Uncle Jim. He pulls her to her feet and towards the dance floor. He leads, as always a picture of certainty and grace, as he is in everything he does.

 

Uncle Jim leans over to speak into her ear, “When was the last time you visited us on the Enterprise?”

 

“Five years ago,” Amandla says, “For your wedding.”

 

That event was much easier on her than this one. She had been Uncle Jim’s ‘Best Person’, a role which mainly consisted of her trying to calm his endless panic over his clothes, his vows, and a hundred other insignificant details.

 

On this occasion, the celebration of his sixtieth year with Starfleet, he is his usual calm and confident self and Amandla has nothing to distract herself.

 

“I wish I could see you more,” Uncle Jim says back, “Five years is too long. I missed you.”

 

Amandla touches the hand resting on her shoulder, “I missed you too.”

 

Uncle Jim smiles down at her and Amandla feels her heartbeat slow. They watch the partygoers before them. Over a hundred people came to Uncle Jim’s party and it is an amusing crowd to watch, to say the least.

 

On the periphery of the dance floor, Commander Spock is now holding Danae. The young girl has wrapped her arms around her grandfather’s neck and her mouth moves fast, so quickly all Commander Spock can do is nod and listen to his grandchild. Taka stands nearby, laughing at the scene before him.

 

Uncle Jim squeezes her shoulder, his eyes following her to watch her family, “I don’t say this enough but I’m proud of you. I’m proud of everything you’ve done.”

 

“You say that plenty,” Amandla says, waving a hand at him, “I know.”

 

“It bears repeating,” Uncle Jim says, squeezing her shoulder. The side of his thumb brushes against her bare shoulder and Amandla sees his thoughts, his unnecessary pain and guilt. The faces of those that were lost but not gone fill her head and she brushes his hand off.

 

“Sorry,” Uncle Jim says, pulling away quickly, “I didn’t mean to show you that.”

 

Amandla shakes her head, her own memories making her usual unease rise again to the surface. She turns, gentling pulling her hands away from his, straightening her dress so that he cannot see her trembling fingers. She forces her face into a pleasant mien before she reaches for him again. This time when Uncle Jim touches her, she does not enter his mind.

 

The music in the room turns to something slightly faster and orchestral. Uncle Jim takes a hold of her waist and beings waltzing with a precision and technique she is only half surprised by.

 

“I went to a thousand cotillions back in the day,” Uncle Jim says as she stumbles to keep up with him, “I won an award for this move right here,” he says before he spins her. Amandla slips and he catches her before she falls. He chuckles, “Sorry about that. Old men like to brag, you know?”

 

He moves through the crowd on the floor, brushing easily past the other partners, practically dragging Amandla along. She is barely capable of dancing and breathing at the same time but Uncle Jim manages to fly around the dance floor, while conversing casually with several of his friends and colleagues as he passes them.

 

“Maybe next I can ask them to play Phaedra Phrost,” Uncle Jim teases her between some gentle ribbing with an Admiral and some polite small talk with an Ambassador.

 

“I can’t believe you remember that,” Amandla says, dizzy from all the faces and dancing.

 

“How could I forget? When you were small, you played that song, ‘Twirl and Whirl’ so many times I heard it in my sleep,” Uncle Jim says, “Don’t tell me you forgot. I don’t believe that at all.”

 

“I can’t remember my own name right now,” Amandla says, clinging to his shoulders.

 

Uncle Jim chuckles, and slows, “Okay, okay.”

 

“Thank you,” Amandla says.

 

He leans down and kisses her forehead. “I meant what I said. I’m proud of you and you don’t have to do anything to earn that.”

 

Uncle Jim embraces her quickly before passing her hand to another. Her vision is blurry but she sees him breaking apart two partners to take another’s hand. She watches Lieutenant Jaylah and Uncle Jim dance away, much more slowly and with fewer abrupt turns.

 

Amandla sways and the hand which is holding Amandla’s tightens to stabilize her. She turns, smiling until she realizes her new partner is Commander Spock. She looks frantically for an escape, another couple perhaps to break into. Seeing only strangers, Amandla lightly places her hand on her father’s shoulder, blocking her thought with as much effort as she can muster.

 

“I thought you were with Danae,” Amandla says. She glances around but her husband and daughter are nowhere in sight.

 

He is silent for so long that Amandla is certain he does not want to be in her presence either until he says, “There is no cause for alarm.”

 

“What?” Amandla says, her voice snapping in spite of her strong desire to be ambivalent.

 

“You are currently experiencing undue distress,” Commander Spock says, “I extrapolate that past traumatic experiences -”

 

“I’m fine,” Amandla says.

 

“In our current circumstance, there is a 0.486% chance that harm will befall you,” Commander Spock says, “The Enterprise is located in a neutral zone. The ship is experiencing no major malfunctions. Additionally -”

 

“I’m fine,” Amandla says, loudly. A few of the dancers around them turn to look at her and embarrassment rush through her, turning her cheeks light green. For a split second she feels her emotional control slip and she feels Commander Spock experiencing her anxiety again.

 

Amandla yanks her hand away from Commander Spock’s, resting it on his covered shoulder. His hand drops to her waist. He is watching her and she is intently analyzing the pattern on the wall behind his head.

 

“I’m fine,” Amandla says.

 

She waits for him to tell her to calm down, as if she wouldn’t if that were even possible, or to start pressing her to talk about the root of her issue, a line of conversation which has the same appeal as stepping on a hot coals.

 

The song progresses agonizingly slow. Amandla feels his eyes on her but she pointedly avoids looking back at him, choosing to feign interest in the ceiling and clothes of those around her rather than face the eyes which had once looked so fondly at her. Her father’s eyes had, at one time, been so warm and loving. That fact she often remembered at inopportune times.

 

The next song comes on, an explosion of happy notes and nonsensical lyrics. Amandla turns. Uncle Jim and Lieutenant Jaylah are watching her from across the room, smiling at her. They must have requested this song, another pop song she couldn’t get enough of when she was small.

 

“I hate this song,” Amandla says.

 

Commander Spock looks down at her. There is a slight change in the corner of his mouth. “As I recall, you listened to it approximately 56 times a day for many months until your mother put a virus on the computers so that you could no longer access it.”

 

“And I fixed the computer and got it back within 5 days,” Amandla replies.

 

“I was quite proud of you,” Commander Spock replies.

 

It is all still there - the rage, the disgust, the anguish - but Amandla remembers now. It might have been returning to her first home or the gentleness of his eyes on her, but she remembers her father, the man who had cherish her mother and given Amandla her curiosity about the nature of the universe.

 

Perhaps they can pretend, for Danae who has been watching her mother and grandfather intently since they arrived on the ship the day prior, and for Uncle Jim, who had asked for this song to be played.

 

Amandla leans up on her toes and kisses her father’s cheek. She whips away the blot of lipstick she left on his cheek, smiling, “Zygomatic.”

 

The space beneath Commander Spock’s left eye twitches. He shifts his fingers on her waist, his finger each flexing in turn, as he responds, “Distal phalanges dance.”

 

“They do,” Amandla says, her grin widening. Commander Spock smiles at her with his eyes and she enjoys the moment, for all its empty joy.

 

He opens his mouth and then quickly closes it. She looks at him, tilting her chin up to indicate her interest in what he had to say. He hesitated again before saying, “Danae told me that she asked you a question this morning. She mentioned that she did not find your answer to be truthful.”

 

Amandla freezes before she remembers. Danae did not know what was transpiring back on Earth between Amandla and her friend. Commander Spock was referring to the inquiry Danae had made after breakfast. Amandla forces herself to sound calm as she says, “Yes. She asked me what the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me was. She has been very curious about you and I for some time now.”

 

“I find her curiosity is very much like yours,” Commander Spock replies, “However, I wish for clarification. You told her, that the nicest thing I ever said to you was that I found you to be very intelligent. Do you believe this statement to be truthful?”

 

Amandla bites her check, bracing herself before responding, “Yes.”

 

Commander Spock inhales, leaning back to look at her, “I think you know this is false.”

 

She had known it was false. It was a lie, all a lie. Even when she had said it, she wanted to take it back. “Why do you say so?”

 

“It is my belief that you feel the kindest words I ever gave to you were multiple statements that I have made over the years regarding your tenacity. You do not give up easily. I admire that trait and I find that you value that characteristic in yourself as well,” Commander Spock replies, “Am I correct?”

 

He is correct but she finds the statement unsatisfying still. Towards what purpose had she demonstrated tenacity? None of consequence.

 

“I may have once valued resilience in myself but I find I no longer do,” Amandla responds. “I don’t want to be a survivor. I do not wish for my entire life to revolve around the events of one day but I have no choice.”

 

She could say more but she does not need to. They both hear her hidden words. He refuse to move forward from that incident and so long as he clings to old memories, she is forced to as well.

 

She is being cruel and the words tear at her as much as they must tear at him. She wants to take the words back, apologize for them, forget them but she cannot. In spite of her disgust, she finds truth in her viciousness.

 

Commander Spock watches her. The smile is gone and in its place is the familiar dark gaze. “In spite of how you may feel on the subject, I find I have a renewed sense of emotional fortitude, knowing that you thrive because of my decision. That sentiment is something I value beyond measure.”

 

Finally the music comes to a close. Amandla hears a familiar laugh behind her. She glances over her shoulder to see Taka spinning Danae. Just before she moves, Amandla swears Commander Spock’s hand tightens on her waist but she is too quick. Before Commander Spock can even blink, she has inserted herself into the space between her husband and her daughter.

 

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Taka says, as Danae is forced to take a step back to avoid tripping over her mother. Taka places his hands on Amandla, turning swiftly so he can kiss Danae on the forehead, “You’re still my best girl.”

 

Danae glares at her mother before taking her grandfather’s hand, “Sa’mekh’al, did I tell you about Coach Redelle.”

 

“I am aware,” Commander Spock replies, “You have my congratulation.”

 

“And she’s a good student too. Straight A’s,” Amandla finds herself saying. She knows Danae will glare at this - and Danae does glare at this shortly after it is said - but for some reason, Amandla can’t help herself.

 

Danae huffs, pulling her grandfather away from her parents.

 

Amandla turns to face Taka. He was angry with her yesterday, for making them late to leave because she had gotten caught up at work. Now, like always, he smiles at her and when she takes his hand, his mind is calm and steady. He does not stay angry. She holds him tightly, allowing him to feel how grateful she is for him.

 

She doesn’t deserve him.

 

“Are you alright?” Taka asks, resting his chin on top of her head.

 

Amandla sighs in response, leaving heavily against him. She presses her check against his shoulder and looks up at him, “What was Danae talking about with Commander Spock?”

 

“Nothing,” Taka replies, “She was inviting him to her birthday. He doesn’t think he can come but he seemed to appreciate the offer.”

 

Amandla wants for him to say more, to give her some indication of what Danae may have told him or not told him, but he doesn’t. He hadn’t been there when she’d made the call earlier, to her lab, to talk to T’Tal. They had spoken briefly, in low voices and in Malay so no one else could hear what they spoke of. Danae had come in near the end, just as Amandla was hanging up. Her daughter hadn’t said anything but Danae’s eyes had shown with a trace of quiet desperation.

 

It had been a simple conversation, one between friends, Amandla reminds herself. It did not matter if Danae had interrupted.

 

Taka turns, waving at Danae who is watching them intently from her place in Commander Spock’s arms. “He’s a good man.”

 

“He can be,” Amandla says,.

 

.

.

.

 

She is running through the Enterprise, the pristine white walls racing by as she sprints towards a specific destination. She bursts into a room to find Commander Spock sitting at a desk.

 

“Samekh,” she says, in a voice that feels foreign, “Mama is back.”

 

He rises, his eyes smiling down at her and suddenly she is back in the hall, pulling him towards another area of the ship. As she runs, her cheeks begin to burn. Blood rushes to her face making her dizzy. Her head aches but she does not stop running. A thick braid of hair beats against her back with each step, tugging painfully on her scalp. Her skull feels like it is being crushed.

 

Finally she bursts through another door. Now she is no longer pulling Commander Spock along. Instead he is already in the room, somberly listening to a scrubbed doctor speak. She sees a line of long tubes, hooked onto vital machines with blinking lights on the sides.

 

She sees names on the tubes: ‘J. Hawkins’, ‘L. Biden’, ‘E. Addams’, ‘K. Patel’, ‘V. O’Riley’, ‘N. Uhura’. Captain Kirk is sitting next to the tubes, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He glances up as she passes, his eyes red.

 

She is pulled forward against her will towards the machines. Hands take hold of her, trapping her. A hypo is pressed to her neck and bile fills her mouth. Her body is paralyzed. Her head feels as it will break apart at any moment. She is lifted up and held down against a metal table. Commander Spock is watching but he listens impassively to her calls for help. Then her vision goes black, leaving her for several seconds with only her hearing.

 

In those second, she hears the sharp hiss of the saw and then the sound of it contacting her skull.

 

She screams and finally her arms and legs can move again. She kicks and slaps the air, pushing away the forces which hold her in place. The sound of the saw rings loudly in her ears.

 

“It’s alright. It’s a dream. Wake up Danae,” someone says, piercing through the sound of the saw. Even through the hum she can recognize it as her mother’s voice. “It’s a dream, Danae. Wake up.”

 

She feels arms around her. Amandla holds Danae tightly against her chest. Danae moves to press her faces against Amandla’s stable shoulder and sobs. Amandla runs her hand through Danae’s hair, her calm seeping through the contact, like ice into boiling water.

 

The bed is warm and comfortable and Danae slowly begins to calm. She hears the dull snore of her father, the gentle ever present  hum of warp core, and her mother’s heart beating. Danae hears her mother speak, “You’re in a guest room on the Enterprise. No one is going to operate on you. No one is going to hurt you. I wouldn’t let them hurt you. I’ll take care of you. I will make this all better.”

 

Danae leans back in her mother’s arms. There is a light on out in the hallway and she can see her mother in the dim glow. Amandla’s face is red and wet. Danae’s bare leg is pressed against Amandla’s uncovered foot.


	9. Chapter 9

The infant - their daughter, he finds himself thinking repeatedly - weighs 3.03907 kilograms, the equivalent of approximately 6.7 pounds. 

 

“Well within the normal range,” Dr. McCoy assures the baby’s hovering father. Then the doctor turns and busies himself with cleaning the infant’s small body so that Spock wouldn’t see Leonard is biting his tongue to suppress a laugh.  

 

“Nyota requested that I remain with our baby. Is that permissible?” Spock says. 

 

Prior to her planned caesarian section, mostly out of apprehension for the invasive procedure, Nyota had attempted to discuss every choice he might be faced with following her surgery. Most had concerned the child, as would be expected. 

 

He and Nyota had married eleven years prior. As Nyota’s fortieth birthday had come and passed, they had assumed their desire for offspring would remain unfulfilled and made a tenuous peace with their lack of children. Thus, when the unexpected did occur, Nyota had worried very much on the subject and her fears had manifested themselves easily in her husband as well.  As his father had insisted, he had remained with Nyota throughout her birthing process, more for his own benefit than hers, he now realized. 

 

“Sounds like something our girl would say,” Dr. McCoy says, “Fine by me. Just don’t get in the way.”

 

Dr. McCoy presses his stethoscope against the infant’s chest. His face twitches when the infant cries in protest. Dr. McCoy pulls away the stethoscope, rubbing it against his hands to warm the cold metal, “I know. I know. Life is an endless struggle.”

 

He is attempting to ascertain the infant’s APGAR score and Spock remains silent to allow him to focus. He watches Dr. McCoy work, mentally reviewing his intensive research. Appearance. Pulse. Reflex irritability. Activity. Respiration. Even before Dr. McCoy turns towards him, Spock has ascertained a number. 

 

“Another nine. Just because of the acrocyanosis, which is normal,” Dr. McCoy says. He sees Spock’s face and adds, “No one ever gets the full ten. Your baby is just fine.”

 

“Depending on a number of factors, approximately 3 to 8 percent of infants receive a perfect APGAR score,” Spock says, well aware that he is engaging in unnecessary speech. 

 

Dr. McCoy stares at him before returning his attention to the infant. He yanks a soft purple blanket off a nearby shelf and swaddles his small patient, “Sit down.”

 

Spock obeys. In anticipation of this moment, he had studied proper techniques but suddenly he feels inadequate. Dr. McCoy watches Spock as he settles the squirming baby into his colleague’s arms. 

 

She is minuscule, barely longer than her father's forearm and her weight is so diminutive in his hold, that he is suddenly struck with the fear that she will slip away. He tightens his grasp until she is firmly against his chest. No harm will come to her, so long as he has a say in the matter. 

 

“I’ve been there, okay?” Dr. McCoy says somewhere in the room. Spock cannot tear his attention away from the minute being in his arms, “I swear you wouldn’t break her. They’re tough little buggers.”

 

“Thank you, doctor,” Spock hears himself saying.  

 

“I’m going to leave you two alone. Go check on how Mom’s doing,” Dr. McCoy says.

 

“Thank you, doctor,” Spock says.

 

For weeks, they had known her, as the energetic kicks Nyota felt early in the morning, as the ever growing being on monitoring devices, as the curious hum that had edged into their familial bond. Seeing her, however, fully realized and tangible, is almost surreal.

 

He searches her face for what he cannot articulate. Nyota had wondered endlessly on which phenotypes their child would inherit but he had been more cautious. Or perhaps not necessarily cautious. Perhaps more hopeful. 

 

It appears to have been a foolish hope. 

 

The infant has thick black hair, warm brown skin with a slight olive undertone, and dark eyes. Beneath round cheeks, she has the beginning of severe Vulcan facial features with a slight softness he assume is from the influence of her maternal traits. Nyota will be thrilled to learn the tips of her baby’s ears are delicately pointed. The sight of it will no doubt prompt her to reach out and gently touch the unique phenotype. 

 

Her hands are small as well, even in proportion to her body. Spock allows her to take hold of one of his fingers. Her Palmar reflex is intact and her grip is impressive, given her age and size. He analyzes the sensations which flow through the bond initiated by the contact: confusion, disdain for the bright lights above, and an almost inordinate sense of intrigue with her new surroundings. 

 

Her brows furrow and she sighs. It is overwhelming. He leans down to kiss the wrinkled skin between her eyes. As he pulls away, her eyes follow him, with an intensity and focus that seem exceptional for such a young infant. She still has his hand and suddenly all other emotions fade away. She is no longer bewildered or uncomfortable. She is only fascinated by him. 

 

Then for a split second, her face contorts just so, and where he did not before, he sees his mother.  Exactly in which facial feature, he cannot deduce. Yet there is curve in her eyes, a softness in her cheeks, distinct lines over her forehead and it is her.

 

“Amandla,” Spock says. That was the name her mother had painstakingly chosen for her, from dozens of books, articles, and databases. Spock is surprised to find the name suits her well. The infant grumbles in response, “My Amandla.”

 

From their bond, he feels her experiencing an echo of the same emotion swelling within himself. He finds the only suitable response is to repeat himself, “My Amandla.”

 

Eventually Dr. McCoy returns to inform him that Nyota is awake and asking for them. His wife is experiencing some swelling and a mild fever, due to anesthesia. Through their bond, he feels the pain in her lower abdomen, despite the dulling effects of analgesics. However, all else fades when she sees her daughter. As Spock is, she is smitten. 

 

“Kamilifu,” Nyota says when the infant is lain on her chest. Amandla turns her head towards the sound of Nyota’s voice. As Spock had anticipated, she reaches out to stroke the infant’s pointed ears, “Kamili kabisa.”

 

_ Perfect. Absolutely perfect,  _ Nyota had said. Spock could find no flaw in this statement.

 

.

.

.

 

For the first several months of her life, it would not have been false to conclude she was obsessed with him. 

 

It was not entirely one-sided, nor was it without provocation. 

 

It began one morning, shortly after she was born. 

 

“There are no socks in the drawer but I did a load of laundry last night so there are some in the basket,” Nyota says. She has not touched the fruit or porridge Spock had prepared for their morning meal. She is cradling Amandla, despite Spock’s offer to hold the infant so his wife could eat without hinderance. 

 

“Thank you,” Spock says. He considers making an observation that their quarters are a comfortable eighty-five degrees Fahrenheit, thus negating the need for superfluous clothing but he does not believe Nyota’s words are related to their infant daughter’s comfort and remains silent. 

 

“I’ve already fed her but she’ll eat again in a few hours. I have bottles and I left them in the refrigeration unit,” Nyota says, watching her baby in her arms. When her mother’s eyes fall upon her daughter’s face, the infant responds with her most recently developed form of rudimentary verbal communication: cooing. Nyota smiles, an expression which looks pained, before tearing her eyes away to look at Spock again, “But you know the feeding schedule obviously.”

 

Spock nods. 

 

“Also, do you remember those clothes Sarek bought us? The ones which were sized for babies six to nine months old? I put those in her closet in a labeled box,” Nyota says, “I just thought you should know that.”

 

Now she is merely wasting time. 

 

“Your shift will begin soon, Nyota,” Spock says gently. 

 

“I know,” Nyota says, her voice low. She inches towards him, settling Amandla into his arms. Nyota makes a fuss over the infant’s blanket for several seconds before the distraction is worn out. She does not move away, one hand still clutching the border of Amandla’s blanket. 

 

“Nyota,” Spock says. 

 

“She’ll be fine,” Nyota says, too loudly, shaking her head. He can feel what she feels: excitement, tempered by guilt and sadness. Nyota had endured six weeks of bed rest and spent another three months on maternity leave. She is desperate for intellectual stimulation, as even she knows, and yet here she is: clinging to a blanket, trying to justify herself.

 

“You will spend a mere eight hours away from her,” Spock reminds her, “Then you will return and resume your lessons on Klingon culture with her. Your shift will begin in eight minutes and you will require seven to arrive on time.”

 

Nyota nods, sighing enormously. She finally releases her grasp on Amandla’s blanket, dipping down to kiss her daughter’s head and then leaning up to kiss her husband. She rushes to get her things, pausing only once to look back before leaving.  

 

Spock begins clearing the kitchen tables. It is only after he has put Nyota’s uneaten breakfast into the refrigeration unit, washed his own bowl and utensils, and wiped the table with a damp cloth that he realizes Amandla is starring at him for the umpteenth time. 

 

She stares often and with the same general expression: her dark brown eyes wide and her face slack with her mouth wide open. Spock reaches for his communicator as Nyota had requested he send her pictures throughout the day. When that task is finished, he touches the dual folds over her mouth. Her eyes follow his hand. 

 

“This is your philtrum, Amandla,” Spock tells her, “When you were developing in utero, this was the area where your nasomedial process fused to your maxillary process. A defect preventing this fusion causes a condition known as a cleft lip or cheiloschisis.”

 

Amandla turns her head to attempt to suck on his finger but she is intrigued by his speech. He hears his words reverberating in her mind. Spock feels an inordinate sense of pride when Amandla rubs her fist across the space between her upper lip and nose. 

 

It is illogical. She is too young to understand his words, let alone the significance of them. Most likely she is engaging in novel sensory seeking behavior, an unrelated exploration of her surroundings.

 

“It can be caused by genetic influence, such as specific gene defects or a variety of syndromes, and environmental influences,” Spock continues, “However, it is very treatable with surgery and speech therapy.”

 

It would be permissible to place her in her crib whilst he prepares himself for the day. Yet, he passes the bedroom, pausing only to grab Amandla’s specialized infant support seat. He arranges her on the counter in the bathroom. 

 

“I do not believe you are aware of what the term ‘genetic’ means,” Spock says, glancing at Amandla in her chair. She coos in response. Spock pauses to smear shaving cream across his cheeks. As he carefully scrapes his razor across his face, he explains. 

 

“Do you have any questions?” Spock says when his explanation is complete and his facial skin is soft and rinsed. 

 

Amandla presses a fist to her philtrum again. 

 

Spock prepares his toothbrush to clean his teeth. As he scrubs, he compiles an explanation of how teeth form, which he shares with her as she consumes her 0700 bottle. She clings to the thumb of the hand supporting her bottle. Her mind is free of superfluous thought as he speaks.

 

Amandla naps on Spock’s chest when she is finished with her bottle. Sitting without extraneous movement so not to rouse her, he decided to also share what a biofilm is and how the resilient bacterial colonies involved can be detrimental to one’s oral health without proper hygiene. She knows little about the world. He must tell her. 

 

.

.

.

 

“Spock?”

 

Her husband continues his reverie, seemingly deaf to her. He had been distant all evening. At the restaurant, he had nearly ordered a dish with fish in it. Then after the movie, he hadn’t been able to answer even simple questions about the plot. He hadn’t even wanted a drink at the small shop they had stopped at, even though she had noticed an almond milk tea she was certain he would have liked. Even now he doesn’t even seem to comprehend the impressive Market Square they are currently walking through. 

 

Nyota bites her lip, desperately hoping this isn’t about the applications. She had been so relieved when they had been rejected but he hadn’t seemed angry about that relief. 

 

They will have to have a discussion on their opposing career desires at some junction. However, being that this is the first shore leave either have had in nearly eighteen month, and being that she does not want to ruin said shore leave with an argument, she decides to indulge him in a topic which is sure to skew his attention. 

 

“What do you think she’s doing?”

 

Spock looks towards her, finally. He wraps an arm around her waist, “I saw Captain Kirk compiling supplies to make a dough for play. When I attempted to provide explanation on how such ingredients are able to form said material, I was told to, quote, ‘Get out.’”

 

“Yeah, she’s having fun with that dough. They made a giraffe,” Nyota says, “She tried to eat the head but I still think she enjoyed it.”

 

Spock stops walking. Nyota’s words do not appear to be a gentle reassurances based on extrapolation. They seem to be statements. 

 

“I called,” Nyota admits, “Twice. Once when you were parking and again when you were in the bathroom.”

 

“There is no need for apology. However, I am curious as to why I was repeatedly banned from making contact by both you and our captain when you clearly had no qualms about maintaining correspondence during our absence.”

 

“Well in hindsight it was somewhat hypocritical,” Nyota says. She shrugs, “I wouldn’t apologize for being concerned about my baby.”

 

“So, you too share my concern over placing her in the care of another.”

 

“No,” Nyota replies, quickly, “Jim loves Amandla like crazy. She couldn’t be in better hands. Plus I asked Carol to stop by and check on them. I called because I miss her.”

 

The look in Spock’s eyes melts her heart. His grip on her waist tightens and they begin walking again, “As do I.”

 

Nyota chuckles, leaning against him as she pulls him close. Even after all these years, she still revels in his presence. She blames the twelve hours shifts which seem to constantly keep them apart and the fact that he is still as genuine and handsome as he was decades ago when she first met him. 

 

They turn a corner and a breath of winds sweeps past them. Nyota smells a hint of salt in the air and grabs Spock’s hand, pulling him along. “I think we’re near the waterfront,” she says. 

 

He follows, closely and quickly, knowing just how much she loves the sea. 

 

At this hour, there are no boats on the water. All that is in front of them is an endless expanse of the Gulf of Finland, the water shimmering under the full moon. Nyota savors the soothing sound of waves as Spock comes to stand behind her, holding her tightly in his warm embrace.

 

“I like Helsinki,” Nyota says, “Do you like it?”

 

“It is satisfactory,” Spock says. She waits for him to elaborate but he remains silent, watching the sea with soft eyes. 

 

She told herself she wouldn’t but she can’t help it, “Is this the kind of place you want to settle down in?”

 

He still does not break his silence. She turns in his embrace to face him. Finally, his eyes turn to hers, “While I find Finland to be a reasonable place to visit, I believe San Francisco would be a more optimal location to establish a domicile. We would both be able to obtain faculty positions at the Academy and several reliable parenting magazines I recently reviewed recognized the city as one of the most ideal to raise a child.”

 

“I liked living in San Francisco when I was younger,” Nyota says. 

 

“Yet you are not willing to establish a permanent domicile there,” Spock says. 

 

“I worked so hard to get on the Enterprise,” Nyota says, “We both did. All that knowledge waiting to be learned, all those new places waiting to be discovered. I worry I wouldn't be happy on Earth.”

 

“I strongly feel that our child’s emotional state will be reflective of our own level of life satisfaction,” Spock admits. 

 

“And Amandla is so young. The ship and the crew are all she’s even known. Maybe when this new five year mission is finished we can revisit the issue. She’ll be old enough for school. Old enough to understand.”

 

He does not respond. She knows he is not still not satisfied. Once again, he is torn. The Enterprise, will all the new discoveries and excitement she promises, is where he truly wants to be. Yet his paternal instincts want to find a safer place, one where Amandla can play on grass and see relatives on a regular basis and attend school with children she can grow up with. 

 

Nyota takes in one last look at the Gulf before taking Spock’s hand again. They begin walking towards the transporter pad. Back on the Enterprise, Spock begins walking faster and faster until he is practically running towards their quarters. 

 

Spock brushes past Kirk as the captain opens the door, taking the most direct course to the crib across the room where his nine month old daughter is waiting, arms raised expectantly when she sees him.

 

“Hey yourself,” Kirk mutters. He watches as the commander holds his girl to his chest, the baby looking over her father’s shoulder with dark eyes, tiny hands reaching to grasp the short hairs on Spock’s neck. She is babbling into his ear and her father is nodding in understanding. Kirk nods at the duo as Nyota follows her husband into their quarters, “There’s no one else in the world where they’re together, huh?”

 

“Yeah, I’m the interloper,” Nyota says. She crosses the room to kiss her baby girl and sighs, “Did you bathe her?”

 

“Sure did. She just needs a bottle and I think she’ll go down,” Kirk says, heading towards the kitchen where he left the canister of formula and a warm bottle. The formula is pleasantly sweet and he dips his pinkie in to taste a little. 

 

By the crib, Spock is still cradling Amandla close and Nyota has her arms wrapped around her husband as she makes faces at their daughter who gives an easy smile back. 

 

“I was afraid she might experience some emotional distress at our absence,” Spock says to Kirk, “However, she appears to be comfortable and content. Perhaps those fears may have been unfounded.”

 

“Yeah. I’m not entirely incompetent when it comes to childcare. Go figure,” Kirk says, mixing the measured powder into the hot liquid, “I babysat a lot as a kid. Just so you know.”

 

“I knew she’d be fine,” Nyota says, “There was another person I feared would be emotionally distressed.”

 

“You were gone for three hours,” Kirk mutters.

 

.

.

.

 

She wants the day to be perfect so she wakes up at 0415, to toss streamers and tie balloons to every appropriate surface she can find while simultaneously cooking a big meal of goat stew, rice, and other favorites from home. 

 

Amandla awakens about an hour in her preparation and Nyota takes a moment to sit with her daughter as the baby eats breakfast. Since it’s a special occasion, Nyota makes Amandla a bottle of water mixed heavily with lemon juice to go along with her customary cereal. Amandla drinks the bottle happily watching as Nyota rushes around stirring pots and pasting decorations onto the walls. 

 

Nyota doesn’t really know what’s she going for in the grand scheme of things. She had never decorated for a child’s birthday. So, she continues fixing balloons and streamers and posters she found in the general supply closet until she realizes too late that it’s too much. 

 

“There. It looks good, doesn’t it?” Nyota says when she has finishes making what she can only now hope people recognize as an arch. However, her ballooning skills leaving something to be desired and the “arch” is somehow squarish. The moment she pulls away her supporting hand, it sinks onto her. 

 

Amandla snickers then begins laughing. 

 

“What?” Nyota asks, slightly taken aback. The arch cannot be that bad.

 

Amandla continues laughing so hard that eventually Spock emerges from their bedroom to see what is going on. He takes in the scene before him: his wife looking frazzled, his daughter in hysterics, chaptis burning on the stove, and several pounds of plastic and papers littered around his home. 

 

“Can I assist you in any way?” Spock asks, mentally preparing himself for possible consequences of making the aforementioned question. 

 

“Yes,” Nyota says, attempting to compose herself as she pushes the arch off of herself, “Yes, you can flips those chaptis before they turn to charcoal and you can dress Amandla and then you can come back here and help me finish decorating.”

 

“My apologies,” Spock says, hesitating to respond to her requests, “You require my help to finish your decorations?”

 

“Yes,” Nyota says, “I’m not even done. I have tons more.”

 

“Nyota,” Spock says, crossing the room to flip the flatbread which is turning to ash in a pan on the stove, “I feel it is imperative that I mention we likely have adequate time to finish our preparations. Additionally, perhaps, you have adhered enough temporary decoration to our walls?”

 

“We only have six hours until her party,” Nyota says, glancing around, “Do you think it’s too much? We have to clean it up. I - ”

 

“It is not excessive,” Spock assures her, turning down the heat on the browning goat meat, “I am merely saying it is adequate.”

 

“I don’t want it to be adequate,” Nyota says, tying some string between the cursed balloon arch and a chair so that the arch will stand up, “I want it to be special for her.”

 

Nyota gestures to Amandla who has stopped laughing but has succumbed to hiccuping.

 

“Amandla will eventually experience infantile amnesia, removing any memory she has of this day,” Spock informs her, “There is no need to cause yourself undue stress.”

 

“I know today isn’t for her,” Nyota says, “Today is more for her family and you and I and even though I know it can’t be perfect, I can still make it more than adequate if I can just make this monstrosity of a balloon arch look slightly less awful so if you’ll excuse me.”

 

Nyota turns her attention to her current project. Spock watches her for a moment before pulling a pair of scissors from a drawer and walking towards his struggling wife. She glances up at him as he begins cutting the strings holding the arch together. As he works, she watches amazed as the whole structure becomes larger and more curved. 

 

“Is this more acceptable?” Spock asks when he is done. 

 

“Yes. That’s exactly what I wanted,” Nyota says, “Thank you.”

 

“It has been my experience that when you dedicate yourself immoderately to mundane tasks, it is  as a coping mechanism to resist discomfort from emotional strain,” Spock says, “Are you experiencing emotional strain?”

 

“No,” Nyota says, “I really don’t know what I’m feeling right now.”

 

She pats a dangling balloon before turning swiftly away. Nyota pulls Amandla out of her chair, calling over her shoulder, “On second thought, I’ll dress her. Can you watch the food?”

 

“Yes and I will do so,” Spock replies. 

 

Amandla’s outfit for the day is hung on door of Nyota’s closet, where it has been for weeks so that she could access it for her bouts of indecisions. It’s current version is a pair of black leggings which Nyota bought on their last shore leave, some of gold jewlery Sarek had sent, and a shirt the captain had bought her because it never hurt to suck up to Jim a little. He did control the schedule after all. 

 

“Look what Uncle Jim bought you, Amandla,” Nyota says. She holds up the black and white shirt with the words, ‘Starfleet Academy’ emblazoned across the chest, “Do you like it?”

 

Amandla traces to the plastic letters for a moment and then shrugs. 

 

“Are you going to go to Starfleet one day?” Nyota asks as she pulls Amandla’s nightgown off, “Are you going to travel through space like Sa-mekh and I?”

 

Amandla ignores her mother’s playful speech, choosing instead to watch her own hands. She has just begun to develop self awareness, particularly with regard to her own mirrored reflection, and Amandla’s body had become her new obsession. 

 

“I hope you stay with Sa-mekh and I forever,” Nyota says, “Just the three of us, exploring the universe.”

 

Nyota tosses Amandla’s dirty clothes into a hamper. As she does, she notices a new object among the toys and small trinkets on the dresser top. It is a small electronic frame which flashes between a preset arrangement of photographs. Nyota watches as the pictures change. She sees her daughter pointing towards a bashful Kirk, her child sitting somberly on Sarek’s lap, her baby with various crew members, and a few dozen more of herself, Spock, and Amandla together. 

 

It all brings that strange emotion back to the surface. It always seems so absurd to her, that she could be so empty surrounded by her crew and her family. Perhaps that is why for most of the morning, she had tried to ignore it, brushing it off as sadness that her sweet baby was growing too fast. 

 

“Spock,” Nyota calls. Her husband appears at the door and she asks, “Did you buy that for her?”

 

“Yes,” Spock replies, “I saw it at a store on our last shore leave and thought it would be a suitable gift to mark the anniversary of Amandla’s birth. I presented it to her last night. She appears to enjoy it.”

 

“It’s nice,” Nyota says, “It’s a nice gift.”

 

Spock waits for her to continue but she remains silent. He is inside her mind as always but no doubt her thoughts do not make sense to him. They don’t even make sense to her. The picture flashes to another and she sees herself sitting  next to Makena on their couch. Her sister’s legs are draped over her own. Between them, nestled in Makena’s arms, is Amandla as a newborn. They are both reverently watching her sleep. 

 

Then the pictures changes again and again. All of them are from their lives on the Enterprise. Only when the slideshow is over is Nyota able to label the emotion which has been dominating her mind all morning: loneliness. 

.

.

.

 

“Cauliflower requires approximately twenty minutes to roast. Cooking for a period outside this range does not allow for adequate protein denaturation. The resulting vegetable will have an unsatisfactory texture,” Spock explains. He balances Amandla in his arms as he pulls the tray out of the oven. Spock places it on the stovetop and both father and daughter examine the seasoned cauliflower, which became a pleasing golden brown during its time in the oven. 

 

“Broken,” Amandla says, pointing to a small piece which became charred. 

 

“No. It was cut too small. It’s an outlier,” Nyota says, from her seat across the counter. She hears her communicator humming in their bedroom. It is wednesday, 1700 hours in Portland, where her sister has taken a guest lecturer position. Nyota says to Spock, “Why don’t you make the plates while I answer that? I’ll be quick. Back before you can explain to her what an outlier is.”

 

“Amandla is already aware of what an outlier is. We have previously discussed the topic,” Spock says, curious as to why his statement elicit laughter from his wife. 

 

Nyota flips on the wide screen which is linked to her communicator. As a connection is formed across light years of space, she notices the call is not coming from Oregon. It is coming Perth, Australia. Bewildered, Nyota watches as the screen shows the face of her brother. 

 

They haven’t spoken in years. Still, when she notices his red eyes and wet cheeks, it is not harsh words that come to mind. As children, she felt the need to be his protector and she is only slightly surprised to find such is still very much true. 

 

“Hi,” Nyota says after he has been quiet too long. She doesn’t want him to think she’s engaging in stony silence. 

 

“Hey,” he replies, reflexively. His voice is tight and rough, like he is physically ill. He is thinner too, his back bent with exhaustion. Almost as if he see himself, he straightens his back before saying, “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”

 

“No, of course not. Never,” Nyota says. Nothing about his demeanor changes and that stings. They had once been so close. Back at the Academy, he had often felt inclined to call at any given hour - and he preferred the early morning - to vent about people he was dating, hard classes, or his annoying roommates. She had always protested his call at first but eventually listened, giving advice when he stopped to breathe. They had both always left the conversations happier, more focused on important things. 

 

Now, he seems to be having a difficult time finding comfort in her. 

 

“What’s going on Kamau?” Nyota asks. 

 

“You remember Uncle Rishi?” Kamau says, “The one who let me live with him while I was in school and helped me out a lot after I graduated and . . . ” Kamau drifts off, as if he has forgotten about what he said, “Well, he was sick for a while and needed someone so I’ve been taking care of him.”

 

“Did something happen, Kamau?” Nytoa presses, “Do you need help? I can take time off. Or do you need money? I have to talk to Spock first but - ”

 

“He died, Nyota,” Kamau says, “Two days ago.”

 

“Oh,” Nyota says because it something to says. Her chest constricts. She hadn’t know their uncle well but Kamau had loved him, “I know how much he meant to you.”

“He did,” Kamau says. 

 

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

 

"I - " Kamau says before stopping himself, "Look, feel free to say no. I told him it was too much but - "

 

"What is it?"

 

"Can I come visit you?"

 

"Huh?"

 

"It's just," Kamau says, "You get really close to people when you take care of them you know? And he loved the family more than anything and I told him a lot of things and it was kind of my last promise to him."

 

"Mama!" Nyota and Kamau jump. Amandla is toddling across the room to Nyota with a piece of cauliflower in her hand. Nyota smiles, leaning down so Amandla can place the vegetable in her mouth.

 

"That's delicious. Thank you," Nyota says. She glances at the screen again. Kamau is craning his neck.

 

"Can I see her Nyota?" Kamau asks, "Makena told me all about her but all the pictures she took were awful."

 

Amandla is clutching Nyota's hand, pulling her mother toward the dining room where Spock is no doubt waiting.

 

"Okay," Nyota says. She ducks down, scooping up Amandla. Her daughter thinks the whole thing is a game and giggles, squirming to get away.

 

Kamau is silent, his face blank. Finally, he says, in a high pitched voice, "Amandla."

 

His niece turns towards the strange new voice. She grabs the screen to touch his face. Her hand, as would be expected, touches glass, and she pull back, staring at her fingers confused. She slaps the screen again and Kamau chuckles. 

 

"My name is Kamau, Amandla," he says.

 

"Uncle Kamau," Nyota corrects him, "I have to talk to daddy but I think you'll meet him soon."

 

In the end, Spock does agree with a stoic face and a silent bond. Kamau arrives three days later, with pictures and stories. He and Nyota talk almost non stop. He bounces Amandla on his knee and plays hide and seek with her. On the third day of his visit, he even apologizes to Spock.

 

"I thought at the time, our parents had valid points," Kamau says, "I was wrong. You didn't deserve any of that."

 

Spock accepts the apology and it makes the dull ache in her chest, that must less painful.

 

The days which follow seem to fly by. Kamau tells her about his new job, his new girlfriend, his new apartment. She tells him all about his niece's first year of life and what marriage is like and how she survives in space with no new television shows to watch.

 

And just as suddenly as he reenters her life, he has to leave.

 

"You should send her to stay with me sometime," Kamau says, nodding toward Amandla, who is finger painting in the corner, "I could take her to the wildlife reserve. She could see the house where we grew up. I know mom and dad would -" He stops himself.

 

"No," she says, waving off his guilty expression, "I'm sure they'd love to meet her."

 

She does not add that she thinks about them often. She has for years. She wondered what spices they would add to certain curries to make them better, how her mother had dealt with nausea while pregnant, what they would think if she asked them for advice on certain things. She is mad, weary, and upset still, of course, and rightfully so, but there are many times she just wants them all to be close again. 

 

"They would love to see you too. They told me so," Kamau blurts. He ducks his head, rushing over to say goodbye to Amandla.

 

“Promise me you wouldn’t grow up too fast,” Kamau tells Amandla as he holds her tightly, “I already missed a lot.”

 

“Okay,” Amandla says, mostly so he will leave her to her finger painting.

 

When he returns to his sister’s side, she throws her arms around him. "Don't wait so long to visit next time." As she pulls away his eyes look hopeful and she nods to his unasked question, "We're family."

 

He hugs her again tightly. Then he goes and finds Spock and hugs him too. Spock pats his brother-in-law on the rib cage, watching Nytoa for affirmation on his response to Kamau’s affection. Nyota bites her tongue hard and nods.

 

“Can I take the pictures I took home to mom and dad?" Kamau asks when they are in the transporter room. 

 

Nyota hesitates but Spock does not, "That would be permissible."

 

.

.

.

 

Amandla is transfixed, no matter the subject. The only interruption to her attention is bodily functions and Nyota. Otherwise, she constantly desires to be in Spock’s presence. Even when he is gone, despite their distance, he feels his daughter searching for him through their bond. 

 

He becomes the source of all the explanations that she desires, with his role in her development changing when her focus inevitably turns outward.

 

It becomes their habit, interactions which grow along with her. She has a voracious appetite for knowledge, no matter the source or content. He encourages her by taking her on long walks around the Enterprise, so that she may explore her home. At first it is difficult to determine the source of her attention. However in time, she finds a way around this: pointing at questionable activities and individuals. 

 

“That is Lieutenant Hikaru Sulu. He appears to be fencing with a watering can while tending to his plant.”

 

“That, my Amandla, is Dr. Carol Marcus. She is practicing on the shooting range. She is an excellent marksmen.”

 

“Dr. McCoy and your mother are discussing the recent developments in the romantic relationship between two engineers, albeit using information from questionable sources. That is gossip, my Amandla. It is not to be condoned.”

 

“That is an ensign with a broken femur. Have I explained to you how new bone is formed? It begins with an influx of blood to the wounded area . . .”

 

“You are gesturing towards Ensign Pavel Chekov. I believe he is attempting to eat an entire pizza by himself. This is not a recommended endeavor. However, he is young and I believe he has the gastrointestinal fortitude to consume such an excessive amount of lipids and carbohydrates without many adverse effects.”

 

“That is Dr. Christine Chapel. She is repairing a laceration by hand. This is a required procedure as the lieutenant she is caring for was cut deeply and is bleeding excessively and dermal regeneration is not as effective as stitches.”

 

Her questions become more difficult to answer as her way of thinking becomes more abstract and her ability to articulate becomes more complex. Where do tears come from? Why is one individuals in the story they read together a princess while the other is a pauper? What does Mama mean when she says a cousin of hers has died?

 

They are not questions he feels competent to respond to but he answers them nonetheless, lest she lose her faith in his ability to provide remedy to her curiosity. 

.

.

.

 

She places the call thrice before she lets it go through. The first time she hangs up because the years of anger catch up with her. Then she calms down and hangs up for the second time because she feels guilt. He husband doesn’t know she calling them. She hadn’t hidden her homesickness and he no doubt knew it was directed toward them in part but there had been no discussion. The third time she hangs up because the inspiration behind her desire to make the call is trying to get into the engine of the refrigeration unit again. 

 

Amandla’s brown eyes catch the light when she look towards the sound of Nyota’s voice, making her look deceptively innocent. She tries to get into everything though and both of her parents know better. “My little explorer,” Kirk calls the eighteen month old when he holds her above his head and pretends she’s flying. 

 

Nyota untangles her daughter’s fingers from the covering over the humming engine and carries her over to the communication center. This time after she places the call, she begins fusing over Amandla to distract her from disconnecting again. She had considered dressing up the baby this morning but had ultimately decided against it. Excessive preparation of any kind seemed like treason. Besides, Amandla, like all babies, could be wearing a potato sack and she’d still be perfect. 

 

Her mother answers. The woman from whom Amandla has inherited flat knees and a pert lower lip takes in the scene before her: the daughter she is estranged from and the granddaughter she had only heard of and seen in pictures.

 

“Nyota,” M’Umbha says, her voice caught with disbelief. Nyota, gripping her daughter, mostly to keep the little girl from squirming away, smiles. 

 

“Mama,” Nyota says. 

 

“Alhamisi,” M’Umbha calls. Nyota hears her father grumbling on her parent’s side of the line until her mother adds, “Nyota is calling us and she has the baby. Get down here.”

 

Nyota is somewhat relieved. Makena had been true to her word and not told them, even though for months, in every one of their weekly conversations, Nyota had gone on and on, wavering between calling them and letting things be. 

 

This makes thing equal: they hadn’t expected her and she doesn’t know what to say.

 

“Nyota,” her father says as he comes to sit next to her mother, “My little Nyota.”

 

Affection rises high in her chest when she hears his voice for the first time in years, “Hello Baba.”

 

“And who’s this?” M’Umbha asks, gesturing towards her granddaughter.

 

“This is Amandla. Amandla Grayson Uhura,” Nyota says. She leans close to her daughter’s ear, “Can you say hello to your grandparents?”

 

Amandla does not respond. She whines, pointing, her eyes fixed on the refrigerator. 

 

“She’s beautiful, Nyota,” Alhamisi says, his face which has several new wrinkles, crinkling around his smile, “Just beautiful.”

 

Amandla flexes quickly in her mother’s embrace and in the split second when Nyota’s grip is not as strong, she wiggles away. Amandla crawls under the chair Nyota is sitting in, knowing that there is no way Nyota can grab her without standing up. This gives the little girl just enough time  to hurry back to the kitchen, to the object of her obsession. Nyota grabs her just before she can yank off the grate. Amandla protests loudly as her mother carries her back to the communicator. 

 

“She acts like you did at that age too,” Alhamisi says, laughing. 

 

“She looks like Bibi, doesn’t she Nyota?” M’Umbha says, “Baba’s mother?”

 

Nyota nods. She can see her grandmother in Amandla’s hairline and in her child’s nose but sometimes when her daughter makes certain facial expression or gestures with her body, Nyota swears she is watching Spock or his father, “She looks like Sarek. Same forehead. Same chin. You should see her make the face she makes when she’s angry. Very Vulcan.”

 

Her mother does not even acknowledge this statement and her father simply grumbles in reluctant recognition. Nyota decides to change the subject.

 

Her parents want to know everything about their first grandchild. Nyota spends the next hour telling them what the toddler’s favorite color is (Purple), what kind of food she likes (Anything sour), what games she likes to play (None; She likes to take things apart to see how they work though). 

 

“Of course she is,” M’Umbha says when Nyota tell her about the impressive intellect Amandla has already begun to demonstrate, “She’s an Uhura.” 

 

Amandla is generally disinterested in the whole conversation. After trying several tactics to escape Nyota’s arms, including pretending to fall asleep and feigning injury, Amandla hangs dejectedly in Nyota’s grasp, pouting.

 

They also ask briefly about Nyota’s work, an interest they have never shown before. Nyota tells them, happily, about all her projects and future endeavors. The call seems to be going so well.

 

“When is your next shore leave?” M’Umbha asks. 

 

“I get two weeks in October,” Nyota says. She and Spock had planned on taking Amandla to spend the time on the beach. Nyota sees her parents glances at one another and she holds her breath. 

 

“Will you come see us?” Alhamisi asks, “For a few hours at least?”

 

Nyota shifts in her seat. She wants to go and see them but she has Spock to consider. In spite of this, guilt surging through her, she blurts out, “I’ll think about it.”

 

The guilt intensifies, clawing its way up her throat. What’s the plan here? Is she going to sneak off? Will she take Spock and ruin his time off and start needless strife just because she is a little homesick? She’d hadn’t even said, “I need to talk to Spock”. She had said, “I’ll think about it.” How could she do this? What kind of person goes behind their partner’s back to make plans with the parents who seem to hate said partner?

 

“Thank you, Nyota,” Alhamisi says. 

 

“Call us next week?” M’Umbha says. 

 

Nyota nods and disconnects. The room fills with silence where there had once been laughter and fond voices. Nyota feels disgusted with herself. 

 

“Do you want to talk to Baba and Bibi next week?” Nyota asks Amandla. 

 

“I want the bumblebee,” Amandla says. Nyota looks up and Amandla points at the refrigeration unit again. 

 

Nyota fights a laugh, “There’s no bumblebee in that unit, Amandla. It’s a motor.”

 

“No bumblebee?” Amandla asks, her eyebrows scrunched in confusion. 

 

As much as she find her husband’s constant expositions amusing, Nyota is tickled at the thought of providing her own explanation. Nyota is extremely grateful for the distraction. Halfway into a detailed discussion on kinetic energy, they both hear a sound at the door. Amandla practically backflips out of Nyota’s arms, running to the door as fast as her tiny legs will carry her. 

 

“Greetings my Amandla,” Spock says, dropping his bag on the table by the door so that he may salute her as is their routine. She attempts to return the gesture but does not yet have the motor skills necessary. He nods, appreciatively at the attempt, “Have you demonstrated acceptable behavior for your mother?”

 

“No,” she retorts, knowing this response will tilt the corners of his mouth upwards.

 

Kirk, who’s following on Spock’s heels, clucks his tongue, “What are we going to do with you?”

 

Amandla, upon seeing the captain, squeals, racing to grab a toy to show Kirk before tossing the object away for another, and repeating this action until Kirk calls out, “Stop right there,” Kirk says, holding up a hand. Amazingly, Amandla obeys him. Kirk grins, “You know the rules. First, a problem.”

 

Amandla rocks onto her tiptoes but listens for his commands. 

 

“What’s five times five?”

 

Amandla no longer requires her fingers to solve the equation as she had in the past few months. “Twenty-five!”

 

Kirk pretends to contemplate her answer. Finally, after several tense seconds, during which Amandla is clutching her hand in anticipation, he nods, “Okay. Tackle me.”

 

She runs, colliding with his shins. Kirk falls flat on his backside as if she weighs a hundred pounds. When he is on the ground, she crawls over his legs to dig her fingers into his sides. Kirk coughs, “No, stop. That’s not fair. Not fair!”

 

Spock watches before moving to greet his wife. As he reaches to touch his fingers to Nyota’s, Spock notices her telling expression. He touches his palm to her cheek but she can’t bring herself to look him in the eye. Instead Nyota smiles, her mouth an ugly, false contortion. Before he can inquire, she grabs his wrist, allowing him to enter her mind. She is distressed; he sinks down to kneel next to her so that she may wrap her arms around his neck. 

 

Across the room, Kirk has wiggled and twisted until Amandla is pushed off of him. He manages to get on all fours but she is quickly standing. When they are face to face, she roars at him. He roars back. She squeals happily. Kirk finally notices her parents. 

 

Spock meets his Captain’s eyes. Kirk simply nods. He roars again at Amandla, this time rearing up and clawing his hands above his head. Amandla screams, running towards her room, Kirk chasing her on his knees. With his heel, Kirk shuts her bedroom door so Spock and Nyota can have some privacy and silence. 

 

Spock moves to sit across from Nyota. His expression is stoic and their bond is silent to Nyota’s horror. Spock seems to take an eternity to speak, “What topics did you discuss with your parents?”

 

“Amandla, mostly,” Nyota says, “And my work. It was nice but it was strange too. They were the same as they had always been but not quite. They almost acted as if the past decade or so never happened.”

 

“How so?” Spock asks.

 

“We did not talk about you at all,” Nyota says. Their bond is still closed and she wants to slap some sense into herself for starting all this. “Are you angry?”

 

“I am not,” Spock says. Nyota is unconvinced.

 

“I’m so sorry,” Nyota says, “I couldn’t get them out of my head after Kamau came. And having seen her interact with Sarek has only made it worse because I knew they’d love her just as much as he does.”

 

“Nyota,” Spock says.

 

“I’m not condoning anything they said. They were wrong. You did nothing to deserve that,” Nyota says. She wants to stop and listen to him but she feels the overwhelming need to be heard, “I never encouraged those thoughts, not today, not ever.”

 

“Nyota,” Spock attempts.

 

“Just,” Nyota says, holding up a hand. When he closes his mouth, she lays her hand on his, “I’m here for you. You and Amandla are the most important people in the universe to me. I don’t want it to seem any other way. I don’t want to cause problems. I don’t want to do anything which would hurt you.”

 

Nyota bites her lip. A small part of her wants to add, that if he wants her to, she will never speak to them again but a larger part, one too closely associated with the guilt, holds her back.  

 

Instead, she catches her breath and nods, “Now you go.”

 

“There is no need for you to apologize for familial strife. I am well acquainted with such frustrating issues,” Spock says, “Additionally, this matter was not unknown to me. As I have said on prior occasions, you have an emotional availability which I occasionally find enviable. Your desire for your family was not an exception.”

 

Nyota bends her head, feeling even worse. It’s one thing to go behind his back when he is unaware. It’s another thing to go behind his back when he knows and can suspect she will go behind his back, “You didn’t say anything.”

 

“I assumed if it was a discussion you desired, then we would have a discussion,”Spock says, “When no discussion arose, I concluded they were temporary feelings.”

 

“I should have spoken up. All the hassle I gave you over holding back with me and I couldn’t even bring up one phone call to my own parents.”

 

“I require no apology.”

 

‘Why?’ she thinks, ‘Why don’t you feel like you deserve an apology?’ In this regard she has always felt a small part of him thought he deserved this, a part which believes he is unacceptably different, an appropriate pariah.

 

“But I am sorry, nonetheless,” Nyota says. This is the least she can give him. He may not think he deserves it but he does. Besides, she hasn’t even brought up the worst part of it all: the requested visit.

 

“They were very impressed by Amandla,” Nytoa says, “It was nice.”

 

“An appropriate reaction,” Spock says, his face twitch upward. 

 

“And they asked to talk next week,” Nyota says, “Would you be alright with that?”

 

“Yes,” Spock says. Their bond is silent. 

 

“Okay,” Nyota says. 

 

She does not push. He accepted the call, even accepted the certainty of future calls. She doesn’t need more. She can live in that margin. She squeezes their clasped hands, allowing him to feel her love and affection for him. Spock inhaled deeply, exhaling after a prolonged period of time. After he does, she feels him again. He is a vast, dizzying intellect, the likes of which she has never experienced. He is a tangle of complicated emotions that have been momentarily silenced. He is hers.

 

Being without him is like holding one’s breath: more painful as each second passes and needless.

 

Nyota moves around the table to sit in his lap. His arms circle around him, warm and secure. In their child’s room, she hears giggling, from both their captain and their daughter. Blissfully, she kisses the curve across his forehead, from one hairline to the other, before she leans into his embrace, her head against his sturdy shoulders. 

 

“Thank you,” Nyota says. 

 

He does not ask for what she is grateful for and for that she is relieved. 

 

After dinner that night, as is their routine, Makena calls, saying without greeting, “I heard you’re coming to visit.”

 

“I forgot how quickly news travels in this family,” Nyota says. 

 

“So you’re coming? I need to make preparations if you’re coming.”

 

“I have to think about it,” Nyota says. 

 

“Why?” Makena asks. Her younger sister leans back suddenly, lowering her voice when she adds, “Is it Spock? Did this start an argument?”

 

“No.”

 

“Be honest.”

 

“We’re not arguing.”

 

“Are you sure?” Makena says, “You might be and not even know it.”

 

“I’ve been married to Spock for years, Makena,” Nyota says, mildly insulted, “I know what arguing looks like by now.”

 

“Well,” Makena says, “If you are coming, I want to make room in my schedule so tell me if you’re coming.”

 

“I’m not sure.”

 

“I want to be there to support you,” Makena adds, “I wouldn’t have any of their nonsense.”

 

“I said I have to think about it,” Nyota insists. She changes the subject but now the whole idea is even more enticing. She hasn’t seen Makena in person in years either. It has been so long since she has been on her own planet. 

 

Later when she is reading in their room, trying not to think about her parents, Spock enters, a sleepy Amandla in his arms. He sits next to his wife in bed, laying Amandla against his chest as he rocks his body to soothe the toddler. In spite of the child’s persistent wakefulness, Nyota is impressed. Where she would take nearly an hour, Spock has the baby almost asleep in no more than thirty minutes. 

 

Nyota closes her PADD and leans over to stroke Amandla’s hair, “Why the rebellion, Amandla? Don’t you know one day all you’ll want is a little sleep? I promise the world will be just as fascinating when you wake up. 

 

Amandla can barely hold her own head up and her face is caught against her father’s shirt while the rest of her body droops, leaving her features looking distorted. Still, she forces her eyes open to glare at her mother, as if this whole idea of bedtime is a conspiracy Nyota masterminded. 

 

“Go to sleep Amandla,” Spock murmurs into his daughter’s hair, “We will be here when you awaken, as always.”

 

Spock rubs a figure eight into Amandla’s spine. She fights the good fight but finally Amandla’s eyes close and her breathing becomes a soothing rhythm. 

 

“That’s incredible,” Nyota whispers, kissing her daughter’s brow gently. Thankfully the baby is a deep sleeper and Amandla’s only response is a soft snore. Nyota leans up to kiss Spock, “You’re incredible.”

 

“It is a much practiced technique,” Spock assures Nyota. 

 

Nyota smiles, taking their sleeping daughter from him so she can put Amandla in her crib. When Amandla is tucked in, Nyota admires her baby for a minute. In slumber, she is sweet and innocent, naive to the troubles of the world. If Nyota could have it, Amandla would forever be this way. 

 

From her place by the crib, Nyota can see Spock watching her from their bed. She smiles at him. He sits up straight, leaning forward and Nyota feels beckoned. 

 

“At our shore leave in October, I would not object to a visit,” Spock says as she comes closer to him, “I know that is what you desire.” 

 

“Really?” Nyota says. Now she is skeptical.

 

“If it is ideal for your mental health to spend time with your family, then I can find no flaw with that course of action. Any opposition I took would hinder your abilities as a partner, mother, and officer. Being that I am your husband and superior officer, and that as such I only desire optimal performance from you, such action would be illogical.” 

 

She can’t be certain if he’s doing this please her or not. In spite of his various insistences, it still feels wrong, as if by doing so she is betraying him, even if he does not think so. 

 

“I’ll think about it,” Nyota concludes. 

.

.

.

Nyota steps into the small corner cafe. As she glances around, she is both astounded and deeply satisfied that it hasn’t changed in all the years she’s been away. The menu is exactly the same as it was when she came in high school and college, most notably still listing several of her favorites. Even the decor is still the same: bright, energetic, and inviting. 

 

The smell is the same too: rich roasting coffee beans, pastries and curries being cooked, and a slight hint that she can only describe as ripe fruit. 

 

Nyota bend her neck to speak to Amandla, whom she is carrying in her arms, “I came here everyday in high school and at least once a week in college. Many important things in my life happened here.”

 

It is true. This is where she had gone on her first date in seventh grade, right at the counter. the couch in the center is where she got into the huge fight which ended one of her closest friendships. The corner table which is covered in papers and occupied by two students is where she came to the decision to attend Starfleet. The window seat is where she and Spock sat the first time they visited Nairobi together. 

 

Amandla is confused, slightly bored, and very overstimulated. They had taken an early shuttle that morning. Amandla had been asleep for most of the voyage, waking only when they were pulling in their port in Kenya. Already, Nyota has shown her the school she had attended, the field where she had played soccer as a child, the building where she had competed and won several spelling bees, and several other noteworthy spaces where Nyota’s childhood had taken place. At first, Amandla had been interested. On the ride over, the toddler had rushed from one side of their bus to the other to see everything.

 

Now, Nyota rushes to the counter, ordering some soup and rice for her daughter. Then she carries Amandla over to the window seat to wait. Both mother and daughter watch the busy city outside, the hover crafts rushing by and the beings passing the window. Nairobi, with its massive banking and trade industry is one of the most diverse cities on Earth and they see people from across the galaxy. 

 

She sees them before they see her. Her mother is still the same as she’s always been: tall like her daughters, lean and muscular from swimming every morning, and beautiful with tightly curled hair and flawless skin. Her father is different though. He was always stocky and broad when she was young and now he is a wisp of himself, thin and frail with his back bent slightly as he clutches her mother’s arm for support. 

 

Nyota jumps to her feet to greet them, juggling Amandla and the empty dishes. She feels a bowl tipping and puts Amandla down to steady the glassware. In that instant, Amandla spies a tall man  in a blue shirt with the same haircut as her father outside the window.

 

“Daddy,” Amandla says. She points and before Nyota can even blink, Amandla is halfway across the room, running towards a complete stranger on the sidewalk, mere feet from hovercrafts flying blindly by. 

 

Nyota puts the empty dishes on a table a waiter is cleaning but before she can even tense up to chase her little girl, she sees her father, moving spryly to pluck his granddaughter when he sees her sudden run. 

 

“Hello,” Alhamisi says, grinning to the small child when she is in his arms. He has the same smile as Nyota but Amandla still fusses until he puts her on the floor, one hands holding her shoulder. 

 

“She’s just as energetic as we imagined,” M’Umbha says, beaming.

 

“She’s a handful,” Nyota admits, taking Amandla by the arm. 

 

Amandla tugs, pointing again, “My sa-mekh is outside. He may be lost.”

 

Nyota sees her parents visibly tense She ignores this and tells her her daughter, “Sa-mekh stayed in South Africa with his friends. Do not run away from me like that, Amandla. You could have been seriously hurt.”

 

Amandla stops twisting, her eyes softening as she looks at her mother, “Sorry.”

 

“I am not angry, just concerned for your safety,” Nyota assures her. Amandla still looks upset so Nyota hugs her quickly before turning her towards her grandparents, “Say hello, Amandla.”

 

“Hello Amandla,” Amandla says.

 

“You’re very good at following directions, aren’t you?” M’Umbha says, “What else are you good at?”

 

“I like arthropods, fungi, and fencing. My Lieutenant Sulu is better at fencing,” Amandla replies, “He wouldn’t teach me though.”

 

“Well that’s rude. I’m much nicer I assure you. How about we find a table and talk?” Alhamisi says. He holds out his hand. 

 

“Sure,” Amandla replies. Nyota’s heart swells as she watches her daughter take her grandfather’s hand.

 

They take their seats at a new table near the entrance. It is really no different from their talks back on the Enterprise. They talk about their upcoming retirements, the vacations they have planned, the books they want to write in their new free time. She tells them about her recently published article, recent escapades her ship has run into, and everything they want to know about Amandla, who demands and is given an enormous mandazi by Alhamisi and then proceeds to fall asleep in her grandmother’s arms. 

 

Conversations hadn’t been this easy between the three of them since Nyota was in college at Nairobi University and it makes her more anxious and hopeful. 

 

“Spend the night with us,” Alhamisi insists when Nyota begins talking about going back to the shuttle port. 

 

“We will buy you anything you need,” M’Umbha says before Nyota can explain she has no toiletries or spare clothing. 

 

The sun is beginning to sink and Amandla is happily eating another mandazi. Nyota’s will is weak. 

 

“Alright,” Nyota says. 

 

They go home and drink chai on the porch where there’s a nice breeze and they can listening to the crickets. Alhamisi and M’Umbha kiss them both goodnight and Nyota carries Amandla up the stairs to her old bedroom. 

 

Even her old room is the same! No one has touched even a poster on the wall or a pen on the desk. It almost feels like she’s nineteen again, returning from a night out with her classmates. 

 

“Nothing has changed,” Nyota says in disbelief to Amandla as she dresses her for bed, “Can you believe it?”

 

Amandla shrugs, exhausted from their day. Nyota tucks herself and her daughter into bed. Amandla snuggles into her mother. Nyota holds her close until the toddler is asleep. Nyota stares at her childhood for so long she does not remember falling asleep herself.

 

.

.

.

 

The next morning, Nyota wakes at dawn. It is quiet and the house is still dim but she leaves Amandla to sleep in the bed and creeps down the stairs to makes herself a cup of coffee. She passes by her parents room, which is next to the stairs, listening to hear the familiar light snore of her mother. Then she crosses the threshold into the kitchen to find Makena sitting at the table. 

 

“Hi,” Makena whispers in her ear as Nyota pulls her into a tight hug, “I just got here. Did I wake you?”

 

“No,” Nyota says, pushing Makena’s hair out of her eyes, “I can’t sleep past six anymore.”

 

“Neither can I,” Makena says, chuckling. She pours some dark coffee into a cup for Nyota, “Look at us. Two decrepit adults.”

 

“Two decrepit adults,” Nyota says in agreement. She sips the coffee, closing her eyes to savor the indescribable flavors. No place in the universe has coffee like the kind she finds in Nairobi. She makes a mental note to take some back with her. 

 

“Where’s my baby?” Makena asks. 

 

“Sleeping upstairs. I would go wake her up but then I’d have to chase her around instead of talk to you,” Nyota says, “I think she’s enjoying it all. She loves to experience new things,” Nyota finds a tin of the special pastries M’Umbha buys at a local store and brings them to the table as well. 

 

“I’m so glad you came. I didn’t know if you would,” Makena says, reaching over to hold Nyota’s hand, “You changed your mind so many times,” Makena reaches out to stop Nyota from eating one of the pastries, “Save that for Spock. I think he would like that flavor.”

 

“I’ll save it for him,” Nyota says, plucking the pastries up to put it to the side. She avoids Makena’s eyes as she adds, “Spock isn’t here. Our crew rented a big house by the beach in South Africa and he decided to stay there.”

 

“Did you invite him?” Makena says. Her voice get icy as she asks, “Did they say you couldn't?”

 

“No, of course not,” Nyota says, “I would never have come if they did.”

 

“So, they’re behaving?” Makena says. Her voice is painfully hopeful, “Are you going to talk to them about it all? I’ll be here. I’ll back you up.”

 

“Makena,” Nyota says. 

 

“No, this is bullshit. It’s been twelve years and they’re still like this,” Makena says. 

 

“Thirteen years,” Nyota says, “And it’s my life, okay? It will start an argument. It will. I don’t want to scream and shout in front of my daughter, alright? I just got them back. I will straight things out, because that is what my husband deserves but not today.”

 

They both hear the sound of their father coming out of his room. Makena looks annoyed but nods. 

 

.

.

.

 

“Yeah,” Kirk says for the umpteenth time, “But everyone has their family drama.”

 

“What are you talking about?” Carol asks. Carol circles the support beam of the dock Kirk and Spock are sitting on. She, Chekov, and Sulu are swimming in the ocean.

 

“Nyota,” Dr. McCoy says from his covered lounge chair several feet down the dock, “And the kid. What else would they be talking about?”

 

“Right?” Scotty snorts form his fishing boat several feet away, “Between those two women, I’m surprised you have room in your heads to remember to breathe.”

 

“Where are Nyota and Amandla?” Carol asks.

 

“They traveled to Nairobi to visit Nyota’s parents,” Spock informs her. 

 

“There’s drama,” Kirk mutters to Carol out of the side of his mouth. When Spock looks at him sharply, Kirk smiles, “What? There is.”

 

“I feel that this is an instance where you are unnecessarily disclosing information to a third party,” Spock replies, “Please do not share my personal information with others without my expressed permission.”

 

“Alright, alright,” Kirk says, “I’m sorry.”

 

“I admire you very much Mr. Spock,” Chekov says. He reaches up to dangle on the dock, smiling at the commander when his face is close enough to see him, “You are a Person of Substance.”

 

“Thank you, Mr, Chekov,” Spock says, uncertain how to respond to said statement.

 

There is a pounding of feet on the dock and a small blur flies past them. 

 

“I’m gonna jump in,” Amandla says. 

 

“No, you wouldn’t,” Kirk snaps. 

 

It is too late. She has already leapt off the edge of the dock. An instant later, Kirk follows her, fully clothed. He burst through the surface a second later, looking frantically for Amandla who has already swam over to Carol, who is supports the toddler’s belly while Amandla swims in a circle around her. 

 

“She’s a little fish,” Nyota says, appearing behind Spock. She reaches to lean against him as she sits beside him, “We should think about lessons.”

 

“Did you find your trip enjoyable?” Spock asks. 

 

“Yes,” she says without elaboration.

.

.

.

Spock checks the backpack for the eighteenth time. He makes a note of the lunch bag at the bottom which contains a box of curry and rice, a bag of carrots, an apple, and a water bottle. He flips through the binder with the new PADD and reviews the applications which have been downloaded, mentally reviewing the requested items which the teacher had given in her list: a rudimentary spelling program, a calculator, a section for coloring during free play, etc. He checks to make sure everything is in its place despite his obvious knowledge that it is as he has done this assessment multiple times. 

 

Amandla is nervous. This is a conclusion he reaches after audibly observing Nyota singing to their daughter. Despite her mother’s efforts, Spock can hear his child humming anxiously, as is her habit. Spock understand the emotional response as it mirrors his own. For the past 31 months of her life, Amandla has always been in either Nyota or his own company. 

 

Spock returns the backpack to its original place on the table by the door before joining his wife and daughter in the bathroom where Nyota is still singing a ballad about a duck and an umbrella while braiding their daughter’s hair and Amandla is sucking her thumb. 

 

“Your backpack is prepared,” Spock informs Amandla, “I believe you will find your lunch satisfactory and your scholastic equipment are all accounted for.”

 

Amandla gnaws on her hand, watching him with wide brown eyes. Nyota has commented that it appears their child’s irises are lightening. The pigment in children’s eyes, as Spock has read, often change in their first few years of life. As he watches her now, he sees a golden brown ring around his daughters pupil’s and small segments of green where there once was only dark brown.  

 

“Are you experiencing enthusiasm in anticipation of your first day of school?” Spock asks. 

 

Amandla shakes her head. Nyota, who has been biting her lip slightly, glances at Spock before leaning down to whisper in her daughter’s ear, “They have a class squid you know.”

 

“A squid?” Amandla asks. She has seen invertebrates in books and movies but never experiences a living specimen. 

 

“Yeah,” Nyota says, “You’ll get to see how it swims today. And Samekh made you a special curry, just for today which you get to have at lunch.”

 

Amandla looks at Spock. He nods, “Indeed I did.”

 

“And Amandla,” Nyota continues, “Remember all the things I told you that you’d learn at school? Like how to speak new languages? And do mathematics? And the books, Amandla. You’ll have so many books at your fingertips, you wouldn’t even know what to do with yourself.”

 

Amandla looks conflicted. On one hand, she enjoy all the things Nyota has described and is intrigued by the idea of more reading, her newest developed skill. On the other, she desires to remain with her parents and this desire overwhelms all others and propels her into her mother’s leg. Amandla wraps herself around Nyota’s calf and clings tightly. 

 

Nyota looks pointedly at Spock. She had expressed a disdain for enrolling their toddler in the new preschool program.

 

“I just think she’s too young,” Nyota had said.

 

“Amandla has an intellectual curiosity which I feel we are inadequately nurturing. A new environment and novel stimuli, along with dedicated instructors would be more ideal for her development,” Spock had replied. Vulcan children attended school in their second year of life. It did not seem irregular to him that his own daughter would as well.

 

“I worry the structure will be too much. At her age, she should be learning by playing,” Nyota had insisted, “It would be unnatural to have her at a desk for hours, glued to a PADD doing assignments.”

 

Her husband, however, had been persistent. Nyota had silently allowed Spock to proceed. Spock had diligently filled out all the required forms and met with Amandla’s teacher, an intelligent women with an advanced degree in child development who had been keen on adjusting her lessons to Amandla’s specific needs. 

 

Spock pulls Amandla’s hands away from Nyota, “I believe you will find school stimulating and ultimately preferable to your current daily activities. I say this with a high degree of certainty.”

 

Amandla glances at Nyota, who confirms Spock’s words with a curt nod. When Spock moves to pick her up, Amandla does not fuss. Nyota rushes ahead and grabs Amandla new backpack, showing it to her daughter again. 

 

“See Amandla? Purple, your favorite,” Nyota says, gesturing animatedly at the swirls of tyrian and amethyst over a lavender background. Amandla strokes the design unenthusiastically. Nyota smiles, tossing the bag over her shoulder to fasten it against her back. 

 

In the hallway, as they pass his quarters, the door to Captain Kirk’s room flies open and Jim steps out in his pajamas, hair messy and bent in a hundred different direction. He smiles sleepily at the family before reaching out to pat Amandla’s cheek, “First day of school?”

 

“Your statement is accurate,” Spock says. 

 

“You’re gonna be great, Amandla,” Kirk says, nodding at Spock. His First Officer had confided in him the previous night about his apprehension over starting his daughter in an educational program early, “You’re gonna have so much fun it’ll hurt and you’re gonna make a million friends.”

 

Amandla glances at her father, confused. Spock clarifies, “He is using hyperbole.”

 

Amandla nods, saying to Kirk, “Thank you.”

 

“Call me if you need me,” Kirk says, to Nyota, who nods, and to Spock, who pointedly ignores him. Kirk adds at they continue walking, “Knock ‘em dead.”

 

“He is not instructing you to commit murder, Amandla,” Spock says before she can ask, “He is merely wishing you good luck on your upcoming endeavor.”

 

They continue to the lift, riding up to the tenth floor before exiting. A new objective that the Enterprise had undertaken on their new five year mission was to encourage the establishment of a more diverse community on board the starships. One of the novel demographic which had been introduced included adults with children, ranging in ages from infancy to late teens. 

 

The tenth floor was redesigned to permit educational facilitation. Amandla has never been on this specific floor and twists in Spock’s arms to see everything. The older student began their classes the week prior and the rooms are full of students. The high school aged student have already begun their first period, science class, and their classroom is visible through a clear window. 

 

“Will I get to use microscopes?” Amandla asks. 

 

“Probably not,” Nyota says, “Maybe Samekh will allow you to look through some in the science lab though.”

 

They pass the middle schoolers in their homeroom class and the elementary school students who are engaging in free play prior to their first lessons. At the end of the long corridor, across from the kindergarten, is the preschool room. Amandla’s teacher is waiting at the door, greeting her new students. 

 

“Hello Commander, Lieutenant,” the teacher says when she sees them, “You must be Amandla. My name is Mrs. DeVito. I’m going to be your teacher this year. Are you excited?”

 

Amandla looks into her new classroom at the colorful foam floor, bookshelves around the perimeter, the dozens small desks, educational posters and age appropriate toys, and shakes her head. 

 

“Take me there,” Amandla says, pointing to the high school classroom, “I want microscopes.”

 

“You must go with Mrs. DeVito,” Spock says, “She is your teacher as dictated by your age requirements.”

 

“I’m sure you’ll have fun with her,” Nyota says. Her voice is irregular and she pushes Spock to hand Amandla over to Mrs. DeVito, who smiles knowingly as she takes Amandla into her arms. 

 

“Let me introduce you to everyone,” Mrs. DeVito says. She smiles at Spock and Nyota before carrying Amandla over to the students sitting on carpet patches across the room. 

 

The other children as noticeably larger than Amandla but Mrs. DeVito allows Amandla to follow her closely until she can pull out a small harp and begin playing a welcome song. Amandla glances back at Spock and Nyota to confirm they are still present until Mrs. DeVito begins playing. Then she and the other students are more consumed with the strange instrument and its haunting notes. 

 

At that junctions, Spock begins pulling Nyota away from the doorway. She clings to the door saying in a frustrated tone, “That’s our baby.”

 

Spock tugs again but Nyota still clings, “She is more than adequately prepared.”

 

Nyota takes a deep breath and releases the door frame, “Let’s have ten more.”

 

“You are emotionally compromised,” Spock says, “I will disregard your previous statement.”

 

“Don’t act like you’re not emotionally compromised.”

 

.

.

.

 

In the first months of Amandla’s schooling, Spock comes to the conclusion that the educational system onboard of the USS Enterprise is lacking. 

 

“There is no pedagogic value in smearing colored wax onto the outlines of numbers and alphabet letters,” Spock informs Nyota one night when she comes home to him using algebra flashcard with Amandla. 

 

“Does x equal 7?” Amandla asks. 

 

“That is incorrect,” Spock replies, “Reevaluate your methods and make another attempt.”

 

“That’s your daughter,” Nyota snaps, leaning down to meet Amandla’s eyes, “Do you like learning math?”

 

Amandla shakes her head. 

 

“Would you rather spend your free time coloring?”

 

Amandla nods, vigorously. 

 

Nyota gently takes the flashcards from Spock, saying, “Maybe when she’s older.”

 

“On Vulcan, children do not regulate their educations,” Spock informs her. 

 

“You really want her to have the same Vulcan educational experience you had?” Nyota retorts, “Besides, human children learn better by playing than with flashcards, especially when they are barely three years old.”

 

Nyota leads Amandla back to her small desk. From a cabinet nearby, Nyota takes several pieces of colored paper and some crayons, which she spreads out for Amandla to select from. Not unexpectedly, Amandla selected a paper in a royal purple shade and a lavender crayon before carefully spelling out her mother’s name.

 

“Knee-yo-tuh,” Amandla says, her tongue peeking through her teeth. When she is finished, she shows her mother, “That’s you.”

 

“Very nice,” Nyota says. 

 

Amandla smiles, setting the paper down. She stops, seemingly to ponder the design on the wall. 

 

“What’s wrong?” Nyota asks when her daughter has been still for too long. 

 

“I’m trying to remember a word,” Amandla says. Then her eyes brighten and she begins scribbling on the paper. Nyota watches as the words form. 

 

H-A-L-F-B-R-E-E-D.

 

“Where did you hear that word?” Nyota asks. 

 

Amandla looks up, scared, “I don’t know.”

 

“It’s alright. You didn’t do anything wrong,” Nyota says, forcing herself to remain calm, “I would just like to talk to the person who said that.”

 

“My friends at school,” Amandla finally admits, “They said they can’t play with me because I’m a half breed and I’m cold hearted like my dad. When the other half of my breed comes in though, I think they’ll let me play with them again. When does that happen? Is it like teeth growing?”

 

“A breed is not something which you grow Amandla,” Nyota tells her, “It’s something you’re born with.”

 

“Oh,” Amandla says. Then, with one shy finger, she reaches out and touches Nyota’s curved ears. Nyota freezes at the contact and Amandla, sensing her discomfort, says, “I’m sorry I’m a half breed.”

 

“No,” Nyota says. She pulls Amandla out of her chair and into her arms, “No, no, no. You are perfect to me. I love you more than you’ll ever know.”

 

Amandla looks uncertain. 

 

“Did I tell you, that after you helped Mr. Sulu water his plants, he called you, ‘a very sweet girl’?” Nyota says. 

 

“No,” Amandla says, confused as to where her mother is going with this. 

 

“And when your father and I went to talk to Mrs. DeVito, she told us your work is always well done and finished on time.”

 

“Ok,” Amandla says.

 

“And Mr. Chekov say you picking up after those ensigns in the cafeteria last week and he said that was very thoughtful of you. Plus, Captain Kirk says you’re always very patient when he’s teaching you how to swim. And Dr. Chapel really appreciated how nice you were to those kitten she found back when we were at that space station. Remember how you helped feed them when they were so small?”

 

“So?” Amandla says. 

 

“So?” Nyota says, “So, you have many people who appreciate you. You are kind, you are hard working, and you are very thoughtful. Who wouldn’t want to be your friend? Only a fool."

 

“My classmates. They don’t want to be my friends and they’re not all fools,” Amandla says. She tosses her crayon onto the desk and runs to her room, tossing herself onto the bed, wrapping herself tightly in her covers until she can’t hear the world around her. She can only hear her own heartbeat and her own breathing. 

 

Moments later, however, she hears someone entering her room. She looks over the brim of her comforter. It is Sa-mekh, coming to sit on the edge of her bed. 

 

“You’re mother informed me you wished to know more about your heritage,” Spock says, “We have discussed Vulcan traditions, have we not?” 

 

“I’m Vulcan and English like you. And African like Mama,” Amandla replies. 

 

“Correct. However, I believe I have lapsed in disclosing all pertinent information on the topic. Let me review. You are a quarter Vulcan and three quarters human, Amandla,” Spock explains. He brought a piece of her colored paper and he draws her a circle, quarts the shape, and then shading in one fourth. He explains her heritage to her, telling her a brief history of both cultures, and skimming over a few relevant topics before Nyota appears to prepare Amandla for bed. Her dark eyes follow him and he accompanies his wife and daughter to explain more. 

 

“Mixed heritage can be a difficult concept to grasp, particularly because of the dearth of information on the topic,” Spock says, “On one hand, your identity is very clear to you. On the other hand, it does not matter because the world sees you in a manner which does not necessarily align with your own view.”

 

“We know and we will help you, Amandla,” Nyota says. The sonic is ready and Nyota is busy stripping off Amandla’s clothing. Nyota leans close so she can be sure, Amandla hears, “We will help you understand and accept yourself, Amandla. Sa-mekh knows what life is like when you are part of two worlds.”

 

Spock is surprised at her statement. Of course he will attempt to guide his daughter in life, give her advice should she need it. However, when he considers the argument, it is impossible to conclude anything but that he does not know very much on how to effectively navigate such circumstances. 

 

Nyota is unfazed by his reasoning. When he gives her his concerns later that night, after Amandla is asleep, she shakes her head, “I don’t know if we’ll do it perfectly. You try Spock. That’s it,” Nyota crawls across the bed to sit close to him, “Just be for her what you wanted someone to be for you when you were younger.”

 

In that instant, Spock recalls his mother, arguing with one of his classmate’s parents until her face was red. Then pulling him away from his bullies to wash his face of blood and tears. He went on to tell her what they had said about her and she brushed them off. Then he had told her what they had said about him. 

 

“Who you are is just fine with me,” his mother had said. Then she had allowed him to divulge other past grievances that his father had told him to forget, replying to his disclosure with what he deemed appropriate emotional responses. When it had been finished, he had felt infinitesimally better. 

 

“I will make an earnest attempt,” Spock replies to Nyota. 

 

“Good. I have to share some very stern words with those children’s parents tomorrow too,” Nyota says, moves to set the alarm clock for the next morning, “Call my daughter a half breed.”

 

Spock watches Nyota for a moment, noting how bright her cheeks get as she speaks. Then he steps out of their room, crossing the hallway to his child’s bedroom. Due to the commotion of the night, he had forgotten to bid Amandla good night. She is sprawled across her bed, her blankets tangled around her waist.

 

By the glow of her night light, he examines her features. She has his ears, the very same children on Earth had one pulled on to see if they were artificial. She has her mother’s forehead, which Nyota’s cousins had often observed could be used to land a plane. Perhaps one day she will bleed and others will be disgusted by the sight of the green body fluid, as has been his experience. 

 

“Buhfik,” Spock observes, leaning to kiss her forehead, “Good night, my Amandla.”

 

.

.

.

 

“I don’t want her to be happy,” Nyota says one night in the officer’s lounge when Amandla is nearly four years old. McCoy and Kirk look at her in shock. 

 

Amandla has just discovered ooblong, a mixture of cornstarch and water which displays properties of a non-Newtonian fluid. She is excitedly explaining how the substance displays characteristics of both liquids and solids to Sulu, who just wants to watch his holo and not hear this whole thing again, and Chekov, who’s listening as if she is the most interesting person he’s ever met. When the captain makes his comment about how joyful her daughter is, Chekov is enthusiastically listening to Amandla explain the property of flow and she is visibly thrilled to have a captivated audience. 

 

“You want to expand on that?” Kirk asks. 

 

“Well parents always say they want their kids to be happy,” Nyota says. 

 

“Yeah, well, loving parents do,” McCoy says. 

 

“I just don’t agree,” Nyota says, “I don’t want her to be happy.”

 

“Are you listening to this?” Kirk says to Spock, who is sitting nearby in a chair, “Did you know about this?”

 

“I was aware of the Lieutenant's parenting philosophy,” Spock say to Kirk, “Particularly as they regard a child we share.”

 

“So, what,” Kirk says, “You just want her to be miserable?”

 

“No,” Nyota says, “I want her to be content.”

 

“Jim,” McCoy says, “We need to buy that child a present or something because these two are going to - ”

 

“Why would I want her to be happy?” Nyota asks, “Happiness is based on circumstances which are all too rare and even more rarely under our control.”

 

“Yeah,” Kirk says, “but it’s pretty great too. At least aspire for it, you know?”

 

“Happiness is ultimately temporary. It’s something you feel when you get a nice gift or feel like everything is going right for you. That is nice but it’s unrealistic. Life can be be frustrating enough without adding the pressure of searching for something impermanent and fleeting.”

 

“So, basically what you’re saying is, on the comment card of life, you want her to check 5?” McCoy asks.  

 

“No,” Nyota says, “I don’t think being content is as bad as you think it is.”

 

“No,” McCoy says, “You want your daughter to be as satisfied as I am when the waiter taking care of my table is just a little slow but really friendly. I understand perfectly.”

 

“Well, I think content is a sum of circumstances. It’s being able to look at your life and your choices and your circumstances and feeling settled,” Nyota says, looking at Spock, “It’s looking at your life and feeling peace.”

 

“Look, that is beautiful and all,” Kirk says, “And, she’s your kid so you can do what you want but I don’t think you should run around saying being excited over a lollipop or jumping up and down because you got a good grade or something is something to not aspire to.”

 

Nyota shakes her head and allows McCoy to change the subject. Through her bond with Spock and Amandla, she feels no unease or discomforting emotions. As she and Spock watch their daughter play with her watery cornstarch, they are both experience the conviction that such a state is something to aspire to indeed. 

 

.

.

.

 

Her pulse is racing. She fists her hands together, extends, and repeats, the sound of skin claping against skin audible. Her rate of respiration is elevated. All this, he can hear easily through the wall between the room he and his wife share and the common living space. This is her new favorite hobby and he prepares himself to accommodate for her new eccentricity. 

 

He steps out of the doorway, pausing due to prior incidences where she had accidentally run into him and hurt herself and his resulting fear of bodily injury on her part. As expected, she jumps in front of him, face crinkled and hands clawed. She roars like the small cat he has seen in the video programs Nyota purchased for her.

 

“Ah,” he says. His voice is monotone but she is accustomed to this and accepts it in lieu of better acting. “A ghost had manifested in my home.”

 

“There is no ghost, daddy,” Amandla says, straightening her fingers and smoothing her face, “Mandulla. Mandulla scared you.”

 

“Please try to enunciate,” Spock says, stressing his words, “Your name is Amandla.”

 

“Mandulla,” his daughter says. She changes her own name constantly. Just hours prior, she had insisted her name was Stephen. Before that, her name was Kili, like the dwarf from the book she was reading with Nyota. 

 

“Amandla,” Spock says, kneeling, “Please try to pronounce your name Amandla.”

 

“Mandulla.”

 

She is growing annoyed and he fears another episode of her anger and his incompetence to soothe her ire. He braces himself in anticipation, mentally reviewing the articles he read previously on dealing with fussy children. 

 

Before she can even begin her tantrum, they both hear Nytoa opening the bathroom  door. Amandla, forgets her anger and rushes to hide again. Spock stand placidly so not to ruin her illusion.

 

His daughter is laughing as her mother enters. Nyota must hear. She winks at Spock seconds before the child pounces. However, despite her obvious awareness, Nyota’s performance is much more believable. Spock takes notes. 

 

“You got me again,” Nyota says, falsely exasperated. Her mission, acting as an interpreter i a colony on a nearby planet suffering from a plague, begins in mere minutes but she still takes her time to tickle Amandla and kiss her.

 

Amandla smiles, looking smugly at Spock, saying, “I got her.”

 

“You are very skilled at remaining concealed until an unsuspecting person passes you whereafter you startle them with sudden appearance and unnerving noise,” Spock informs her. He goes to his bedroom to retrieve Nyota’s bags but when he returns, Nyota is holding a backpack. 

 

“Captain said we had to travel lighter,” Nyota says, “We will be doing a lot of walking.”

 

Spock nods, taking the large pack from her. Nyota allows Amandla to climb onto her back and they begins walking towards the transporter pad.

 

“Please remember to wear your air filtration mask at all times,” Spock tells Nyota. 

 

Nyota twirls around, making Amandla laugh, “Of course I will.”

 

“Please remove yourself from the situations if it overwhelms your abilities,” Spock says, “There is no need to indulge any heroic fantasies you may be harboring.”

 

“I have no illusions of grandeur. I dream only of doing my job well, coming home to my babies, and soaking my feet,” Nyota informs him. 

 

“Please do not leave the supervision of the security detail being sent with you. If you do find yourself alone, please -”

 

“Spock,” Nyota says. She puts Amandla down on the ground and takes her bag from him, “I know.”

 

She kisses him and he finds himself leaning into her. There is no reason to act thusly. The plague on the planet is not pathogenic to humans, nor is the mission classified above her skill set. 

 

When she pulls away, Nyota goes to hug Amandla. He is approximately 37 inches away and it is well within his auditory capacity to hear what Nyota whispers in their daughter’s ear, “Take care of Sa-mekh while I’m gone.”

 

“I will,” Amandla whispers back. 

 

Nyota stands, winking down at her little girl. She turns towards transportation pads where Lieutenant Hawkins, two other communication officers, several nurses, and Dr. McCoy are waiting. Amandla waves enthusiastically until Nyota is out of their vision. 


	10. Chapter 10

Dr. Kimathi continues to speak but Nyota cannot hear the words the other woman says. Nyota fists her hands, flexing and extending her fingers. She moves because she wants to. She takes a breath too, inhaling until her chest aches. This is her body. She remembers her family, holding Amandla as she took her first steps, smiling at Spock and the surge of love which always followed when his eyes softened as he looked back at her, the crew and her Enterprise.

Finally, Nyota can find the words she desires, “No.”

Dr. Kimathi becomes silent. She responds, her voice small and fragile, “No?”

“No,” Nyota responds, “No this - It can’t be true. Tell me it’s not true.”

“Nyota,” Dr. Kimathi says, reaching to take her hand.

Nyota jerks away, standing so that she is too far away for Dr. Kimathi to touch. She knew this woman wanted to be her friend but who was she really? She was the one with all the power and Nyota found it more than a little unsettling. She opens her mouth, willing her words to find a strength which she does not posses, “Take me to my family now,” Nyota says, then before she can stop herself, she adds aloud, “How long have I been away from them?”

“Too long,” Dr. Kimathi says quickly. It is almost as if she had been waiting to answer this question. She stands, her expression one of pity as she looks at Nyota, “I want you to go back to them more than you can possibly know but we must do this properly. Let me - ”

“Stop,” Nyota says. She begins to move towards the door, her eyes intent on the doctor. There is something going on here. The doctor is too emotional, too engaged in this entire set of circumstances.

“It’s going to be alright,” Dr. Kimathi says, “I promise it will all be alright.”

Dr. Kimathi is lying though, even if she doesn’t know it. No matter how hard she tries to push it away, Nyota is remembering.

Dr. Kimathi must be familiar with what had happened even though she couldn't possibly have been there. Nyota had known every single crew member on that mission. Sixty eight people who had been sent to study a devastating plague and save the indigenous population.

There had been blood, pouring from her and out of those who were around her, and pain, pain everywhere.

There had been panic too. An intense, consuming fear as her body began to fail her. It is much too familiar and suddenly she feel overwhelmed. Her vision goes dark and she sees glimpses of what had happened.

A graveyard that extended so many miles in size that she could not see where it ended. Strange alien beings, kind creatures, many of whom had become her friends, who were healthy in the morning and dead in her arms by nightfall. The day one of her colleagues had fallen ill, sending terror through their camp as more and more fell ill with the same symptoms, and then the day which followed where she too had awoken and found she had a pounding headache and a fever which could not be controlled.

Bo had been there, she realizes. He had stood over her, his own skin moist with sweat and his gaze unfocused. He had insisted he treat them all, would not allow someone else to risk also becoming infected. In spite of his own suffering, he had moved among them, one of only a few caregiver for too many patients. Medicine had come for them from all over the galaxy and none of it worked. When it had seemed like would be no treatment, Bo had made sure they were comfortable.

Then it becomes hazy. Crewmembers coming to say their last goodbyes through a clear protective barrier. Bo in the bed next to her, weak and listless. The moment when the pain had become so severe, no analgesic could alleviate it. People in heavy gear telling her to relax even though she couldn’t fight them as they pushed a tube into her throat to help her breath, put a cold fluid into her veins until everything was dark and heavy, and she could not tell where one day ended and another began. A kiss, somewhere in all of it, the last touch she had received.

She has been staring at the wall behind Dr. Kimathi but Nyota is too distracted by her thoughts to notice or care. The doctor is speaking again but Nyota cannot hear. Finally, Dr. Kimathi stands, moving around the table until she can put a hand on Nyota's cheek, forcing their gazes to meet.

“Do you remember your last words?” Dr. Kimathi asks again. Nyota does not respond and Dr. Kimathi gives her a sympathetic look, her fingers stroking the younger woman's hair. “You made a promise with someone. Do you know what that promise was?”

It is on the tip of her tongue. She had been so weak, the words had barely been audible but they had been said and they had caused something to occur.

“I can't remember,” Nyota says.

“Okay,” Dr. Kimathi says, patting her cheek, “If it is alright with you, we should stop here.”

As if anticipating her response, Dr. Kimathi moves away. Nyota stands and begins to leave but stops by the door. The doctor is at her desk, glancing into a drawer which she quickly closes when she sees Nyota watching.

“If you change your mind, I'll be here,” Dr. Kimathi says.

“I know,” Nyota replies. A part of her wants to protest this dismissal but an idea is forming in her mind.

.  
.  
.

Bo is outside in the courtyard, a book on physiology in his lap. When she sees him, she can't help but run to him. He looks up just as she throws her arms around him and kisses his cheek. He puts the book on the ground and holds her tightly.

“Why are you so happy?” Bo asks, touching her hand.

“I'm glad you're here with me,” Nyota says. He scowls and her smile widens.

“Did they give you something?” Bo asks, “Happy medicine?”

Nyota makes a face at him, “I know something about you. Can I tell you?”

“Sure. Am I an heir to a vast fortune?”

“No.”

“Do I have a beautiful family waiting for me somewhere, desperate to have me back so that they can lavish me with love and affection?”

“You might but I wouldn't ask me about that.”

“Is it a present?”

“It could be.”

Bo glares, “You know what I remembered in my last session? My older brother and how he used to love torturing me. He made the exact same face you're making now right before he locked me in a trunk in my grandma's attic. I'm not biting.”

“You can trust me,” Nyota chides.

“That what he said,” Bo mutters.

“Is that really how you feel Leonard?” Nyota asks.

Bo sits upright. He shakes his head, blinking several times before he says, “Leonard Horatio McCoy. That was my name, wasn't it? What were my parents thinking? And Bo, that must be because my nickname was Bones, huh? So much is all coming back now.”

Nyota laughs, stroking his cheek, “You saved me. Did you know that too?”

“Me?” Leonard asks.

She nods her head, “I don’t know what you did but I’m here now and it’s because of you, as far as I can tell. I can’t thank you enough for that.”

Leonard looks her in the eye, “It was nothing.”

She remembers why she had been sent with him. The population they had been sent to save had strange mannerisms that they did not think he could handle. He had been fine though, diligent and dedicated to the task of isolating the microorganism causing so much illness and death as if he were serving his own family.

“We’re going to stay together, okay? I’ll be here like you were there for me,” Nyota says, “You and I, we’re going home very soon.”

“Really?” Leonard says, “Did you steal the keys to this place?”

“No, even better,” Nyota says, “I have the code to Dr. Kimathi’s office and her files.”

.  
.  
.

That night after dinner, Nyota waits in her room. It is 19:37.Two of the nurses will make their final rounding at 19:45 before reporting back to the room where the night staff spend most of their time. The night shift is not always diligent. Even if they do their hourly rounding, and they often skip it or accidentally sleep through it, she will have at least fifty minute to get to Dr. Kimathi’s office and return with the PADD which holds all the files.

Nyota sits by the window, the code running through her head over and over. 0698. 0698. 0698. That morning, for first time, she had noticed it entirely on accident. She had been sitting next to Dr. Kimathi as the older woman opened her files, noted the sequence of numbers that had been imputed to gain access, and then continued on as if nothing had happened. She couldn’t forget the code though. Some part of her had forced herself to remember.

Leonard will be waiting for her in the library. He gave her two names: Joanna and Jim. He wants everything she can find on those two individuals. She knew both but had held back. Something told her he was holding back too but she didn’t press.

It is 19:42 now. She hears the two rounding nurses in the hallway, waves innocently to them through her open door, and then begins to play with her nails. The staff turn the corner and their voices fade into the distance. She had promised herself she would wait, give herself time so that the staff would go to their room and she could pass through the building without issues, but what difference would three minutes make? If she looks out her door, she can see the entrance to Dr. Kimathi’s office.

Nyota stands, grabbing a book off the table before moving slowly towards the hallway. There is no one around. She moves carefully towards the office, stepping heel to toe. She is quiet but not suspicious, just as she wants to be. If someone catch her in the hallway, she will simply say she became lost coming back from the library. Most of the lights in the building are turned off and it would be a simple mistake. The door code had been simple too: 5371.

Then, just as she begins to reach for the handle, the door to the office opens and Dr. Kimathi steps out. Nyota stops, opens the book, and pretends to be reading.

“Nyota?” Dr. Kimathi says.

“Oh?” Nyota says, looking up from the pages, “Hello there. What are you doing here so late? I thought I saw you leave.”

Dr. Kimathi holds up a stack of boxes wrapped in brightly colored wrapping paper. “I’m going to see my great grandchildren tonight. I brought them gifts but forgot them here when I left this afternoon.”

“Special occasion?” Nyota asks, tucking the book under her arm.

“Yes,” Dr. Kimathi says, chest swelling, “They have choreographed a show together and the first performance is be tonight. It’s become quite an event. I’m very proud.”

“That’s wonderful. Congratulate them for me, will you?” Nyota says.

“I will. I’m almost late but I will see you tomorrow. Have a wonderful night,” Dr. Kimathi says, before turning to leave.

“Enjoy yourself,” Nyota says, already mentally counting in her head. She will give the doctor twenty minutes, enough time to ensure Dr. Kimathi doesn’t forget something again and return, and then she will try the code on the door.

Dr. Kimathi stops and faces Nyota again, “Would you like to come with me? I think you’ll enjoy it very much.”

Nyota is taken aback by the offer. She has no memory of ever leaving the Institute. Without thinking, she asks, “Am I allowed to go?”

Eyes twinkling, Dr. Kimathi responds, “I have to ask the boss but I think she’ll allow it.”

Nyota almost wants to say no. The files are calling to her and now she knows the doctor will be gone for the rest of the night. Still, when she thinks about it from Dr. Kimathi’s perspective, there is almost no suitable reason why Nyota would say no to such as offer.

“Let me get my coat,” Nyota says.

.  
.  
.

 

5371\. 0698. 5371. 0698. 5371. 0698.

Dr. Kimathi had not said a word. Not when she had driven Nyota to the theatre in a hovercraft with windows that had been darkened so that she couldn’t see anything out of them, not when she had lead Nyota to the front row and sat down. The older woman just stares down as if memorizing the details of the carpet.

There is music playing, softly so that the audience can talk. It is some instrument Nyota has never heard before and the droning noise is slightly irritating at first but then becomes more and more interesting as she listens. A handful of young adults sit in the orchestra pit. In the middle of them is a petite girl with tight braids that feature streaks of metallic silver dyed hair. The girl plays with one of her braids, tossing it behind her shoulder just before she sees Nyota looking at her.

The girl tilts her chin down, her eyes widening in mock surprise. Nyota blushes but feels inclined to smile. The girl grins back at her.

“That’s Xylia, my great-granddaughter,” Dr. Kimathi says, watching the exchange.

“Graciana’s daughter?” Nyota asks. The girl’s mannerisms remind her of her old roommate Gaila: playful, slightly flirtatious.

“Yes,” Dr. Kimathi says. She waves to the girl before standing, “She always gets so nervous before performances. I think I’ll go and say something nice to her.”

Nyota nods and watches as Dr. Kimathi goes to stand on the edge of the orchestra pit. Xylia separates herself from the group of musicians so that she can press a kiss to Dr. Kimathi’s cheek but her eyes watch Nyota for a split second longer. Then Xylia looks up to the last row of seats.

Nyota turns and looks too. There are a handful of people sitting in the back and Nyota is surprised to find she recognizes a few. In the chair closest to the aisle is her old technician, Bonifacio. He is Xylia’s uncle, if Nyota recalls correctly. Next to him is Thandiewe, Dr. Kimathi’s oldest daughter.

As if feeling eyes on her, Thandiewe looks down and meets Nyota’s gaze. Her expression is no less severe than it was when she was arguing with her mother that day in the hallway of the Institute.

Glancing into the orchestra pit, Nyota sees that Dr. Kimathi’s back is to her as she talks to Xylia. Without sparing a second thought to the impulse, Nyota stands and walks quickly to the last row of the theatre. Thandiewe’s eyes are on her every step, her stare unyielding, but when Bonifacio sees her, he smiles and stands to greet her.

“It is good to see you well,” Bonifacio says, touching her shoulder.

“Same to you,” Nyota says.

Thandiewe does not speak to Nyota. Instead her eyes travel down Nyota’s form and then back up. Assessment complete, Thandiewe makes a disapproving noise and turns away.

“I hear you have been making good progress,” Bonifacio says.

Nyota tears her eyes away from Thandiewe and nods, smiling back at Bonifacio. “You have no idea. I am so close.”

Bonifacio grins and for a moment, Nyota is certain he knows her secret plans. “You’re going to make sure she stays out of trouble, right grandma?”

“Of course,” Dr. Kimathi says, coming up behind Nyota.

Nyota shudders. She hadn’t even heard the doctor approaching. Dr. Kimathi smiles at her, looking very much like a parent who found their toddler trying to steal a sweet. Mercifully, the lights begin to dim and Dr. Kimathi puts a hand on Nyota’s elbow.

Dr. Kimathi looks briefly at Thandiewe, who purposefully is looking in the opposite direction.

“It was nice seeing you,” Nyota says.

Bonifacio moves and abruptly pulls Nyota into an embrace. Nyota is momentarily stunned but quickly finds herself, her arms going to hug Bonifacio back. His lips are next to her ear for only a split second but it is just long enough for him to mutter, his voice barely a breeze, “Hold on.”

The words echo in Nyota's head long after they are spoken, so achingly familiar, she can hardly bear it.

Dr. Kimathi gently pulls her away, “Sage and Malachite's show is starting. We should sit down.”

“Yes, of course,” Nyota says, her voice sounding strange to her own ears. Dr. Kimathi leads her down the aisle. Just before the lights die completely, Nyota looks back to the last row of seats. Bonifacio is on his communicator, sending a message, but Thandiewe is watching her again, her expression looking almost frustrated.

The curtains part and Nyota forces herself to watch. The music builds, a pleasing mix of wind and string instruments. A soft blue light filters onto the stage and a trio of dancers fly across the stage.

They look like no beings that Nyota has ever seen. They stand well over six feet tall and have skin that is smooth, flawless, and iridescent black. They wear a sheer dark material that flows in such a way that the dancers’ every move is accentuated. They are all identical: perfect with hard, defined muscles and the same stony expression which features eyes that are gold and without white sclera.

“Are they real?” Nyota asks, almost breathless. They move beautifully, their movements pristine and elegant. They can’t be, she thinks. If she examines them closely, she can hear the distant hum of an engine and see the slightest vibration.

“Two of them are mechanical,” Dr. Kimathi replies. She points and Nyota can see the other woman is gesturing to small circles on the arm and leg joints of the three dancer, “See? One has fakes but the other two have computer chips, programmed to mimic very exact muscular movements. They move like very real ballet dancers, you see.”

“But one is human?” Nyota says. She looks onto the stage again. The dancers look exactly the same, move in exact harmony with the equal amounts of flawless precision and grace. “Which one?”

Dr. Kimathi smiles, “I have no idea. That’s the point. It’s a union of machinery and humanity, grace and steel or something. I don’t know. I’m not an artist. It just looks pretty to me.”

“It’s wonderful,” Nyota says. She leans forward, taking in the sight of the dancers as they leap up, reaching a staggering height before landing softly onto the ground. Another trio of dancer come onto the stage as well, these ones dressed in similar silver costumes that move with them along with skin that is a glittering white, a stunning contrast to the first trio. They merge into the group of black dancers, pairing up.

Dr. Kimathi reaches out suddenly and takes Nyota’s hand. She smiles at Nyota with tears in her eyes, “Promise me you will have good memories of this night.”

Nyota can barely take her eyes off the performance. She does not respond, choosing instead to squeeze Dr. Kimathi’s hand.

Nyota sees the pair in the middle, watching as one dancer lifts the other with ease. There is something different about their faces, softer perhaps. They must be the real dancers. Then she looks to the pair on their right and thinks, maybe they look the most human. The pair on the left seem to almost be watching her too. Could they be real dancers?

It’s impossible to tell really. The six dancers links arms and move together, their action so in sync, they seems to be reflections in a mirror, around and around but never into one another. One single body divided into many.

.  
.  
.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” Dr. Kimathi asks. They are back at the Institute now, moving through the empty foyer. It is dark and the shadows are almost erie. The portraits on the wall of the woman with hazel eyes looks down on them and Nyota shivers, the strange feeling that she is being watch rushing through her.

Dr. Kimathi is looking at the portrait too, her glance much more fleeting than Nyota’s. She links her arm with Nyota’s and begins to lead her back to her room.

“It was a lovely,” Nyota says, “You have a very talented family.”

“Thank you,” Dr. Kimathi says. She opens her mouth as if she wants to say more but does not speak further.

They are back in the hallway leading to Nyota’s room soon thereafter. Nyota sees the door to Dr. Kimathi’s office and suddenly the codes are at the forefront of her mind again. 5371. 0698. 5371. 0698. 5371. 0698.

“I wanted to ask you something,” Dr. Kimathi says, interrupting Nyota’s thoughts. Before Nyota can respond, she blurts out, ““You let me call you by your first name. That is not something you let everyone do, yes?”

No. It wasn’t something she let most people do, not unless she wanted to allow them to see that side of her. Yet now that she thinks of it, she doesn’t mind that Dr. Kimathi calls her Nyota. If there was one person she didn’t want to let forget that there was more to her, it was this woman.

“It’s nothing.” Nyota says, truthfully.

“I would like for you to do the same for me. I’d like you to call me by my first name too,” Dr. Kimathi says, “Call me Danae.”

“Danae,” Nyota says, “Pretty. I will do that.”

Dr. Kimathi smiles, looking relieved, “Alright. Good night then, Nyota.”

“Good night, Danae,” Nyota replies. She waits, as Dr. Kimathi turns and leaves, waving just before the older woman turns the corner and disappears.

Every cell of Nyota's being wants to go to the office right then but she sees the staff is doing rounds and she knows she must be patient or the truth will be locked away. 

.

.

.

The next day is agony. The minutes seem to drag by and Nyota is haunted by a single thought. 

5371\. 0698. 5371. 0698. 5371. 0698.

She tries everything to distract herself. She plays chess with Leonard and loses five times in a row. She tries reading and finds herself going over the same word for nearly two hours. The only thing which brings forth some semblance of concentration is a one of the language learning programs her technician gave her at their last session. 

Nyota likes Russian. The words have a solid beauty to them that she finds most enjoyable to pronounce. Plus she can wear headphones and wander, which alleviates some of her nervous energy. She easily completes a lesson on basic nouns and verbs, her eye darting only occasionally to check the time. 

Night will come, she reminds herself. Her plan from last night can proceed tonight and there will be no issues this time. 

Without meaning to, she finds herself in the hallway of Dr. Kimathi's office many times during the day. On one of these unintentional visits, she sees Bonifacio going into Dr. Kimathi's office. 

"Hello," Nyota says. He makes a strange face at her and she realizes she spoke to him in Russian. 

"Hello," Bonifacio replies. He tries to repeat the word she said in Russian and absolutely crucifies the terms but she smiles at his efforts nonetheless. He smiles back and goes into the room, closing the door behind him. 

Fear that he will remain there festers quickly in Nyota's stomach but he reemerges a few moments later with a package under his arm. He sees her watching and waves before leaving. 

Strange. Nyota hadn't seen Dr. Kimathi all day. 

There are forty five more minutes to pass, so Nyota returns to her room, going through the motions of preparing for bed. The language learning program has progressed to basic conversational skills and she is suddenly overtaken by a deep sadness. She remembers brown eyes, a boyish face, and warmth.

Ensign Chekov, Pavel Andreievich, sir. Pavel. He had wanted her to call him Pasha. That was what his sisters called him. 

Just went it seems like she can't bear it a moment longer, Nyota goes to the door, waits as still as a statue, certain the doctor or the staff will return, her hand on the door until she can bear it no more.

Her fingers fly as she puts in the code. A cold, giddy rush of joy runs through her as the lock clicks and the door opens. She closes it softly, not even daring to turn on the light. She crosses the room and her hands reaching for the desk.

In the bottom drawer, there is a stack of picture in frames. Nyota cannot see them in the dark office but she is barely interested in them anyway. She pulls open the second drawer, painfully happy to find the PADD. She flips through the files, the glow of the device bright in her eyes.

Her entire life is in her hands. She goes for the last file which was opened by Dr. Kimathi. Before her is what she was looking for, a single plain line: “Hold on.”

She allows the words to sink into her awareness. ‘Hold on’, her supposed last words. She plays them over and over in her head, trying to let them take her back but finding nothing.

Then another thought enters her mind. Bonifacio had given her this exact statement back at the theatre. Why?

She goes to exit the file but another program opens. A loud voice recording begins to play. She attempts to stop it but somehow, it becomes louder.

“Patient is Violet Netha Abukutsa. Birthday April 28, 2303. Patient came in for an endovascular thrombectomy of the middle cerebral artery following an acute ischemic stroke. Anesthesiologist was Dr. Malcolm M’Balla, circulating nurse was Tasneem Chiang, and the first assistant was Hasna Okezi - ”

Nyota throws the PADD back into the drawer and shuts it away but it is too late. Through the doorway, Nyota hears staff approaching.


	11. Chapter 11

Human Experimental Subject Patient #001: K.C.. A twenty-eight year old woman who fell from the top of a ladder, cracking her skull on the pavement below. K.C. sustained a head injury which resulted in permanent brain damage. Paralysis on the left side of her body accompanied by coordination and vision problems. She had searched the galaxy before coming to Amandla for her experimental procedure. K.C’s case takes three months to pass the ethics board. 

 

The waiting is torturous for all involved. Amandla tries to distract herself with other projects but whatever forces may be refuse to allow her to. To begin with, somehow, K.C. gets the number to the laboratory.

 

“Who is this?” Dr. Nguyen asks, no less than three times, before Amandla finally pulls the communicator out of her colleague’s hand. Dr. Nguyen hurries off but not before she can say, more than a little threateningly, “We have twelve minutes to get to that budget meeting. Be polite but make this quick.”

 

Amandla rolls her eyes. Dr. Nguyen grumbles, straightening her scrubs before going to yell at one of the students who had been drafted into helping with their meeting, an unfortunate soul who had disgracefully chosen that moment to sit down. Dr. Nguyen doesn’t know but she is wearing Amandla’s scrub bottoms, which are much too long, and a scrub stop, which is much too small, all of which points to Dr. Nguyen being in a very specific mood which Amandla has no love for. 

 

“Hello,” a small voice says over the communicator. “I’m sure you’re very busy but I just wanted to speak to you. My name is - ”

 

“Yes, I know,” Amandla says, “I recognize your voice. You came to all those review board meetings.”

 

“Oh. Yes, I was there and so were you,” K.C. says. She clears her throat but her voice still quakes when she asks, “How are you? I haven’t hear anything and I was wondering if you had?”

 

“Amandla!” Dr. Nguyen cries from across the room, she is balancing a large box in one arm and holding her student by the elbow with the other, gesturing her head at the clock in the corner. 

 

“I actually haven’t hear anything either. I’m so sorry,” Amandla says, “I am late for a meeting.”

 

“That’s alright!” K.C. says, “I know you’re very busy.”

 

She sounds upset and Amandla can’t help but remember the woman, sitting in the back row, looking so painfully hopeful. Dr. Nguyen is charging across the room but Amandla quickly says, “Why don’t you come to the university? We should talk.”

 

K.C. enthusiastically says yes just before Dr. Nguyen plucks the communicator out of Amandla’s hand and explains, as politely as she can, that they really must go. Amandla forgets the conversation right up until the next morning, when she finds K.C. waiting outside the laboratory for her to arrive. It is 5:15 in the morning. 

 

“Wonderful,” K.C. says, her tone and expression earnest, as Amandla shows her samples of neural tissue that they have grown, scans they had taken, prototypes that are being worked on for their still hypothetical procedure, and pictures of Hammy that had been taken for articles and news segments. 

 

Amandla sees the stains on the floor, the samples which were dead and starting to rot, and the open wiring which she had electrocuted herself with the week prior, but as she listens to K.C.’s assessment, she can’t help but be proud of their work, “Thank you.”

 

K.C. begins to come every Thursday, quickly becoming a favorite among the staff for the pastries she frequently brings and the persistent interest she has in even the most mundane tasks that occur in the lab. She is there when they finish their prototype and sits eagerly as they adjust it so that it fits K.C. specifically. She is there when Dr. Nguyen brings back the form which signals they have gotten the first piece of necessary approval, news which pushes K.C. to throw herself into Amandla’s embrace. She is there, sitting on an armrest with an infectious grin, as Amandla and her surgical team have their first planning session, all for a surgery which is still very much a simple proposition and nothing more. 

 

The initial assessment is extremely intensive. Not only must they establish a baseline to gauge improvement following the procedure, they must also determine if there are any underlying conditions which may be an impediment to their success. 

 

The review of systems is mostly normal in the end but Amandla finds it quite revealing. It illuminates things she would never ask about, facts she would not necessarily need to know. K.C. was a dancer. Amandla can tell by the wear and tear on her joints. Not just any dancer either. An advanced practitioner of the art. There were very small, poorly healed fractures in the bones of K.C’s feet, most likely from performing ballet en pointe. Her left calcaneus had been broken twice as well, with both injuries happening within a few weeks of each other. Stubborn, Amandla thinks, unwilling to wait to heal completely before returning to her craft. 

 

Amandla’s mother had been a dancer too, although one that was more enthusiastic than skilled. When Amandla had been smaller, her mother had held her on her hip and they had held onto each other tightly as Nyota had spun, faster and faster until Amandla was dizzy and giggling. 

 

It is all useless to know. She should be focusing on the nerves which innervate the muscles and joints and bones she is so fascinated by and yet she remains interested in these underlying matters. 

 

It makes the waiting that much more unbearable.

 

K.C. calls the laboratory on a daily basis. Amandla answers every time. 

 

“Soon,” Amandla says, always wishing she could say more. 

 

“Doesn't it bother you that she calls every day?” the staff ask.

 

It doesn't though. It is emboldening to have another with the same persistent need.

 

Finally the day comes. The board submits its final approval at 2115. By 2205, K.C. is on her way to Amandla’s office for her last consultation. She moves about the laboratory, as always in awe of the shining machinery around her. 

 

“What is this?” K.C. asks Amandla. She has stumbled upon the massive board in Amandla’s office, the one with the seemingly random assortment of letters, numbers, and illustrations. 

 

“Just scribblings,” Amandla says, shrugging her shoulder. She points to each, explaining them as she moves her hands across the board: an equations which measures acceleration, a skeletal formula which describes the structure of oxytocin, a drawing of the major muscle groups of the legs. 

 

K.C. nods, taking in each explanation Amandla provides to her. When Amandla is is finished, K.C. watches her with a strange expression. 

 

“Are you married, doctor?” K.C. asks. When she sees Amandla’s expression, she gestures towards the formula for oxytocin, “Don’t they call this the ‘love hormone’?”

 

Amandla smiles, “It’s more related to reproduction. It’s responsible for contractions during labor, milk production for the baby, bonding amongst the new family. At least, that is what I was thinking of.”

 

“So, you’re not married?”

 

“I was,” Amandla finally says, “Not anymore. I am divorced, very single right now.”

 

K.C. nods, biting her lip, “Children?”

 

“One. My daughter is twenty-two. She’s a student at the university,” Amandla replies. 

 

“Is she a scientist like you?” 

 

“She changes her major every day,” Amandla replies. She couldn’t even be certain what Danae’s major was on that particular day. It had been nearly three weeks since Amandla spoke to her daughter and that conversation had been quick, the result of Taka pressing a phone quickly into Danae’s hand just as their daughter was leaving for her morning practice run. Danae had not wanted to talk to her. Amandla finds herself telling K.C., “Danae runs. That’s all she can think of.”

 

Athletics. Something Amandla had no practical knowledge of. Danae had taken her mother's ignorance as a sign of disapproval. Amandla was, of course, impressed. Her daughter was a long distance runner and an accomplished one. Physiologically, it was extraordinary. She merely was unnerved, seeing her own child pursue a goal which was so finite. ‘A trophy is prized only temporarily,’ she had said to Danae once and then immediately regretted.

 

“Are you two close?” K.C. asks, studying the board again. Amandla is silent for so long that K.C. looks up and blushes, “I didn’t mean to pry. You don’t have to answer that.”

 

“It’s alright,” Amandla says. 

 

K.C. is quiet as Amandla leads her back to the examination room, talking only when Amandla asks her questions during the assessment. 

 

Only when the consultation is complete, does K.C. speak again, “I trust you, doctor.”

 

“Thank you. You don’t know how much I appreciate that,” Amandla replies. For the first time in this entire process, Amandla allows herself to feel an inkling of confidence.

 

The procedure take approximately 36 hours and 19 minutes. There is another surgeon to relieve Amandla but she refuses to switch out. K.C, even knowing the risks of the pioneering procedure, put her trust in Amandla. She do not know the other surgeon. When it the procedure was over, Amandla stays another 17 hours with K.C., just to be certain.

 

It is, in short, a success. In follow up visits, her issues show great improvement and on brain imaging scans, where there once was damage, thereafter is healthy, functioning tissue. 

 

“Your daughter should be very proud of you,” K.C. says the next time they meet. It is six weeks post-op. K.C. greets her by reaching out and taking Amandla’s hand into her own, something which had not been possible prior to her surgery. K.C.’s eyes are bright and happy. She doesn’t mean anything malicious by her statement but Amandla does not respond, nonetheless. 

 

They are not alone. The university hired a photographer and a journalist to document this meeting. When Amandla helps K.C. to her feet, she does so because she was commanded to. 

 

If K.C. knows that this is all staged, she does not give any indication. She grabs a hold of Amandla’s lab coat and begins to sway. When Amandla grips her to steady her, K.C. simply laughs, “I’m not falling. I want to dance.” Then she tries to dance, her arms tight around Amandla and her movements rigid and still slightly uncoordinated.

 

Perhaps it’s a lack of sleep or euphoria over her success, but Amandla is nearly moved to tears by the sight. K.C. is the same age as Amandla was when she began to this long process. Amandla is forty-eight now, older than her own mother ever was.

 

“Spin me?” K.C. asks. Amandla obliges her, beaming as she watches her patient’s graceless moves. K.C. smiles back at her as she slips under Amandla’s arm and then back into the doctor’s embrace. The journalist leans in close so that she can hear K.C. tell Amandla, “I haven’t been able to do that in years!”

 

“I’m sorry this took so long. I know I told you it would be less than a month but I honestly didn’t think it would take six weeks for you to be able to stand and walk again. I’m sorry if there was ever a time you doubted me. Sometimes it takes a while for the connections to come back and for you to begin to feel as you used to.”

 

“I never doubted you,” K.C. says, “I gained everything I wanted to gain from the procedure. Look at me. I’m dancing again. I’m grateful for you.”

 

“This is all new for me too,” Amandla says, “You’re the first and I have to learn from you. We’ll go forward together, yes?”

 

“Of course,” K.C. says. She smiles again. Behind Amandla, the photographer snaps a picture. “Now, I’ll spin you, okay?”

 

There are over a dozen more potential patient profiles waiting for Amandla back in her office. She spends the next three days reviewing them, choosing which ones she wants to proceed with, and crafting reports for the ethics board. When it is all over, Amandla sleeps for nearly an entire day. She does not even go home. There is no one waiting for her there and her mind already racing with the possibilities that seem more worthy of her attention than a dark, empty house. She wishes she felt some sense of joy at this accomplishment but there is none. Soon, she thinks, soon there will be progress again.

 

.

.

.

 

The next few test subjects are much like the first. A nineteen year old who had been born without a corpus callosum. A forty-two year old injured in a car accident. A thirty-four year old with a brain tumor. Each is rewarding in its own way, each gives her more confidence to proceed. Then Dr. Nguyen demands they challenge themselves. That brings them to Human Experimental Subject Patient #015: L.V.

 

Hasna is performing a physical assessment. Amandla watches the tests but her mind is wandering. No comprehensive response to Hasna rubbing her knuckles across the patient’s sternum, just unintelligible sounds that couldn’t even be described as words and decerebrate response of both arms that is so rigid, Amandla had winced when she first say it. One hours, fifty seven minutes, and thirteen seconds. Eye that do not open spontaneously and pupils that are fixed when exposed to light stimulus. ‘Not a bad time,’ Danae had said with a charming smile on the news program last night. Glascow Score: 5. Not everyone can come back from a torn hamstring, not everyone could recover from such a devastating setback, and yet, Danae had.

 

“How was the RSBI trial?” Hasna asks the respiratory therapist. Amandla does not hear the staff’s response but she does seen her nurse’s eyes darken. The expression is an easy one to interpret. Hasna had made the same face the week prior, during a resuscitation attempt in the post surgery recovery unit which had ultimately been unsuccessful. 

 

“And the EEG?” Hasna asks, her attention now on the nurse who is caring for the patient.

 

“No activity,” Amandla says. She had reviewed the report five times already, had the test done three times. Nothing. 

 

L.V. had been her friend, a former classmate from medical school who had practiced in the neurosurgical department of a nearby hospital. Amandla hadn’t even known L.V. was aware of their experimental trials, let alone that her old friend had willed that his body be donated to the cause, if the unthinkable should happen.

 

And then it had.

 

“The sedation is off?” Amandla glances at the glowing number which measures the flow rate for the intravenous medication. 

 

“I turned it off two hours ago when you called and said you were coming,” the patient’s nurse replies. 

 

Then, as she had several weeks ago when she had heard her friend was in the intensive care unit and every time she had visited since, Amandla presses two fingers into her friend’s palm, “Hey old man. Can you hear me? Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.”

 

Every time, to her own disgust, she thinks he’ll respond. He will open his eyes, make a bitter face at her, and say in his raspy voice, “What do you want, brat?”

 

He doesn’t, of course. He lays in his bed, unmoving except for the basic bodily functions which the humming machines around the room perform for him. She’s an idiot to even dream he would, after what she had seen on his scans. 

 

The staff in the room are watching the patient, looking for a normal response. Only one person sees Amandla. Hasna clears her throat loudly and says, “We’ll be by to get him tomorrow at 0500.” 

 

Hasna pauses as if thinking of something to add but there is nothing more to say. The family had refused any artificial feedings. What hair was left on his head was wispy and thin, easily removed in the OR with a razor blade. They would likely be the ones to prep him too, as it would be much easier once he was free from his mechanical bondage. 

 

Hasna begins to move towards the door but Amandla still lingers. She had never known a person like him. Unlike their other classmates, he never seemed intimidated by her, never treated her like a spectacle. She taught him Latin so he could master anatomy and so they could talk about their classmates without being overheard. He snuck candy into the library for them to share when they were studying, was always able to return her jabs with gentle teasing of his own, and called her every year on her birthday even after they had graduated. She sometimes imagined he was her older brother.

 

“I'll see you soon, my friend,” Amandla says, finally pulling her hand away from his. She nods to the staff and follows Hasna out into the hall. An alert chimes on Amandla’s PADD and she looks at it, grateful for the distraction. 

 

“How is she doing this month?” Hasna asks, yawning. It is only 2200 but they had been awake since dawn preparing for the procedure the next day. ‘Workaholics, flocking together, slowly killing themselves,” Taka used to say, in a tone that equally biting and affectionate. It was the truth though, although acknowledging the bad impulse never stopped the behavior in this case.

 

“Number two in Africa. Number five in the world,” Amandla says, “But the championships are next week so who knows how much higher she can go.”

 

“Our little runner girl,” Hasna says, shaking her head. 

 

Amandla nods. She sends Danae a message, congratulating her on her recent race victory which she knows her daughter will not respond to.

 

She was not the only who had sinned but as far as Danae cared, Amandla had ruined their family. Taka had tried to make her understand, as much as a child could understand the distant world of their parents, but Danae didn’t care. She hadn’t heard their long conversations about their mutual dissatisfaction in their marriage or come to their gentle resolutions with them. She only knew that Amandla had been the one to file the papers which had dissolved their union. 

 

Back in the lab, Amandla goes to her office. She could do the simulation again but her fingers ache from practicing so many times on that day alone. She’s not hungry or tired either. It had been hard to eat and sleep for the past few weeks. 

 

Amandla hears Hasna doing her final checks and then switching off lights and machines around the lab. When it is all finished, Hasna comes into the room with a hypo. Without speaking, Amandla raises her sleeve and Hasna administers the medication. Amandla needs to sleep and they both know it. 

 

“Do you want to talk about anything else?” Hasna says.

 

Amandla glances at her but knows it is not an invitation to discuss anything of consequence. “I’m done for the night if you are. Go home and rest.” 

 

Stretching her arms, Hasna waves half-heartedly. “I’ll see you tomorrow, boss.” Then she goes to turn off the last switch in the lab and it is dark except for the space around Amandla’s sole lit lamp. It seems like there is nothing beyond the room with the chair she is sitting in and the desk before her and the closet which is part way opened, revealing one of the incubators. 

 

The samples - L.V.’s samples - were visible; healthy, robust tissue which had formed perfectly. 

 

The sedative takes effect almost immediately, giving a warm haze to everything. She does not remember closing her eyes but she must have because she has another one of her strange dreams. She is back in L.V.’s room, touching his hand again, calling out to him but this time, he opens his eyes and glares at her. He mouths a familiar word and she has no choice but to roll her eyes in response. 

 

Amandla awakens, neck stiff from leaning on the desk. She glances at the clock, sees that she had only slept for about three hours. She sits for a moment, contemplating if she should try to sleep again, before she stands and leaves the lab. 

 

The night nurses on L.V.’s floor barely acknowledge her. She is a frequent visitor. 

 

Her chair is waiting for her, with plastic pillows and a blanket on it. She curls up. The chair is hard and she can’t even find a comfortable position but she doesn’t care. Amandla reaches out, presses two fingers into L.V.’s hand again. Nothing, as it was before. Just chaos, signals without purpose. 

 

“Do ut des, old man,” Amandla says, “Come back to me and say something mean.”

 

Still nothing. Amandla’s communicator brightens and she goes to check it. The message she sent to Danae has been returned. Her daughter had responded. She had blocked Amandla’s number. 

 

“You see her?” Amandla says, pointing to the picture hanging next to L.V.’s bed which features Danae as a newborn in L.V.’s arms. “Remember the day she born? I wanted to finish that surgery and you told me to, and I quote, ‘Stop being an ass and go deliver’. I could have finished that surgery, just so you know. She was barely crowning.”

 

L.V. would laugh at that if he could. In that regard they had been the same, both became too engrossed in tasks until someone had to pull them away for their own good. He might even tell her a story that was worse than hers. 

 

“She was perfect, wasn’t she?” Amandla says, “A warm, sweet little thing. When you came to see me, you wouldn’t give her back, no matter how many times I asked. She’s a nightmare now.”

 

Coincidentally, there is an image of L.V., Imani, T’Tal, Amandla and several of their classmates hanging on L.V.’s wall too. Amandla chooses to ignore said picture. She had not been the one to hang it. 

 

Amandla tosses her communicator on the bedside table before turning on one holo which she doesn’t watch and then another until finally, the team arrives to take L.V. downstair. 

 

The OR does not present the distraction she had hoped for.

 

“What is that?” Chiang demands, unwrapping one of their sterilized instruments and carefully dropping it onto the field. She is, of course, referring to the series of photographs which are lining the ceiling of the OR. It is a room they seldom use and they are all surprised to see the old fashion pictures on the wall.

 

“Imani put them up a few weeks back,” Hasna says. She puts away the shaving equipment and hands Amandla one of the skin prep applicators. “They are watching over us.”

 

Amandla huffs. Hasna glances at her but Amandla pretend to cough as if she is simply annoyed by the smell of the prep solution, in spite of the mask she wears. Leave it to Imani to not speak to any of them for months and then go and do something like this. If she’s going to up and leave, then she should leave. 

 

“They’re creepy, right? It’s not just me?” M’Ballah says, shaking her head. She puts a number into the one of the pumps and then curses, erasing the data so she can program the right amount, “Don’t get me wrong. I respect the intent but let’s take them down. Come on, Chiang.”

 

“Oh I’m sorry,” Chiang says, dropping another tool on the field before turning towards the anesthesiologist, “Do we not need the gods watching over us anymore?” 

 

“We have the great Dr. Amandla Uhura,” M’Ballah says.

 

“Don’t say things like that,” Hasna snaps, gently cleaning over L.V.’s eyebrows. Amandla moves to dab at the drips of solution before they go into their patient’s eyes. “Besides, they’re patron saints from the Catholic Church, not gods.”

 

“What?” Chiang says, “Do we not want them either?”

 

“Of course we want them. They’re the patron saints of doctors and nurses,” Hasna says. She raises an eyebrow when M’Ballah and Chiang look at her, “I went to a Catholic school when I was in elementary.” 

 

“Just take them down, Chiang. We can pray or do a blessing or something but I can’t have them up there, looking down on us,” M’Ballah says, setting up her intubation supplies,“I feel like they’re following me with their eyes, quietly judging me for all of my many many sins.”

 

“Sure,” Chiang says, “and when I get struck by lightning, I can blame you. You take them down, M’Ballah.”

 

“I don’t want to be reincarnated as a cockroach either but they’re distracting,” M’Ballah responds, “It’s a safety issues. Someone has to take them down. Okay, I’m thinking of a number from one to ten. 

 

“You’re just picking the number so you don’t have to be the one,” Chiang says.

 

“One. That’s the number I picked. Go ahead, Chiang,” M’Ballah says.

 

“It’s like ten feet off the ground! How am I even supposed to reach it? Should I climb on the crash cart - ”

 

“Leave them,” Amandla says. Hasna, Chiang, and M’Ballah all pause and look at her. She looks calmly back at them and they quickly return to what they were doing. 

 

She looks at the pictures again, feeling a certain peace as she gazes upon their knowing expressions. 

 

Sometimes before more difficult procedures Imani and T’Tal had prayed for them, one pushing prayer beads through her hand and the other facing Mecca. That was before Amandla had divorced Taka, Imani’s brother, and T’Tal had immediately thereafter started avoiding her.

 

Now, there was only ancient glossy photographs looking out for them.

 

Amandla goes to program one of the lasers. As she works, she can’t help but feel as if someone is watching her. She turns but the other staff members are busy. She goes to put in another code but suddenly the machine turns off. She tries to turn it back on but nothing happens. 

 

“Why does this keep happening?” Amandla growls. Chiang goes to hit the button on the wall but before she can even call for tech support, the door to the OR opens. 

 

T’Tal pauses by the entrance to adjust her mask. Amandla looks forcefully at the laser as if staring at it will make the damn thing work. She clear her throat, her tone perfectly neutral, “I thought William was the engineer for today.”

 

T’Tal stands next to Amandla, waiting silently for her to move so that she can see the laser. T’Tal takes a moment to adjust one of the settings before responding, “He asked to be transferred to GI. They asked me to cover while they look for a replacement.” 

 

Chiang snickers, “I wonder who made him quit.”

 

M’Ballah smirks too but not Hasna. Not Hasna, who knows too much about everything. T’Tal looks up from her work, barely glancing at Chiang but just long enough so that Amandla notices the change in attention. 

 

Chiang must notice too because she continues, “Amandla destroyed him, T. He begged her for months for a date and she finally said yes and let me tell you, they must have gotten pretty wild because we found them sleeping in her office the next day and he has been hanging around like a love sick puppy ever since but she wouldn’t give him the time of - ah, what Hasna? Why are you looking at me like that? I’ll get to the poem.”

 

“It was a simple change in the settings. I believe it was done intentionally,” T’Tal says quietly, “It will work now.”

 

There was no change in either of their expressions but Amandla takes a step back, going to the sanitizer machine to scrub in.

 

“Good luck,” T’Tal says, wringing her hands as she exits the OR. 

 

Hasna is behind her watching Amandla again but Amandla refuses to look back at her. Chiang is giggling, no doubt thinking of that stupid poem that would haunt Amandla for the rest of her days. 

 

Finally M’Ballah, dear M’Ballah, speaks, saving Amandla, “We’re ready.”

 

Taking a deep breath, Amandla picks up her first instrument. She is sterile but if she weren’t she would touch L.V.’s hand, one last time. Instead she mutters, barely loud enough to hear, “Thank you.” 

 

Then she begins. It is a welcomed release, as always. There is no foolishness or unwanted memories. Just absolutes: a set procedure and the conservative 43% possibility of a good outcome. 

 

Afterwards, she goes to her office and to her own surprise, she lays down on the couch and falls into a deep sleep. There is no need for a sedative. She lays her heavy head down and escapes. There are no dreams this time. 

 

She awakens hours later to her communicator flashing. The time flashes on the screen. She slept for nearly thirteen hours. 

 

The person calling is one of the night nurses on L.V.’s floor. The nurse does not respond to Amandla’s half-asleep greeting, saying, “Please come up to the floor, doctor.”

 

She runs, getting more than a few strange looks, but she can’t bring herself to care. The nurse is waiting for her outside the door. Amandla knows immediately what has happened from the nurse’s expression. 

 

L.V.’s body is still contracted in the bed. There is still a machine helping him breathe, another which is monitoring the manner in which his organs function. He is nearly the same as before except for a one changes, a difference which is immediately noticeable. 

 

His eyes are open. Amandla waits, certain it is a reflex until the night nurse comes in behind her, saying, “He will follow you if you move.”

 

And as if he understands, L.V.’s gaze moves towards Amandla. She takes a step to the right and his eyes follow her. She takes a step to the left, just for good measure, and he follows that too. Amandla grins so hard her face hurts. 

 

She moves, putting two fingers to his palm, “You came back to me, old man. Where have you been?”

 

He does not grip her hand. Not then. He does, thirteen days later and his grasp is weak but she squeezes back and his mind is foggy but the chaos is gone. He seems to gasp but he doesn’t speak either. He will though, after a month of speech therapy and his first words to her will be demands for chocolate and that wonderful nickname she was missing but quickly grows weary of again. 

 

What he does do is close his eyes but not all the way. His eyebrows do not move nor does he have enough control over his face to complete the expression but she knows it immediately and glares right back. 

 

.

.

.

 

The case makes international headlines. Some condemn her but most are fascinated, jubilant even. More come to her office, offering themselves, demanding her services. Some pass the ethics board easily. A ninety-six year old who sustained a brain bleed following a fall. A seventy-two year old stroke patient. A thirty-four year old with a congenital malformation. Others take time. A grandmother suffering from a degenerative disorder. A newborn with anencephaly. Another coma patient. A father with meningitis. A few cases seem like they will never arise from the Ethics Board’s scrutiny until they do.

 

Each case makes her hopeful. Each case feels like step towards something. 

 

Each case, however, is draining her of something. That she can’t deny. 

 

.

.

.

 

Human Experimental Subject number #034 is S.A, a twenty year old boy with a history of epilepsy with three episodes of status epilepticus in the year before his surgery. He is also easily one of Amandla’s favorite patients.

 

“Why the hell are you painting that blue?” S.A asks. Amandla had come to his hospital room for another post-operative assessment and quickly become more interested in the scenery painting S.A. was doing. He had wordlessly torn another piece of paper for her and passed it her way with a second set of watercolor paint.

 

“It’s my flower. I can paint it whatever color I want,” Amandla says. She hears staff in the hallway outside the door and sits up, “Any new symptoms?”

 

“No,” S.A. says. “You know that was the janitor right? He comes by every night at 11? Way to be thorough though.”

 

“I’m just asking if you have new symptoms,” Amandla says, “I don’t want people to see me in here, sitting around, playing with paints.”

 

“You’re just visiting me and you know it. I'm your only friend. Don't roll your eyes at me. You've done that stupid assessment like seventy thousand times. I could do it to myself if I wanted to,” S.A. says, “There’s never any changes. I could have another seizure tomorrow. You could never predict it.”

 

“You wouldn’t have any more seizures. You will have a long and happy life,” Amandla says. 

 

“It’s like they say, ‘Nothing is certain but death and taxes’,” S.A. says, shrugging a shoulder. 

 

“Well, I am hopeful. No one would think less of you if you were hopeful too,” Amandla says, cleaning off her brush in the cup of water. She swirls her brush in the dark purple paint. The sky in her scenery can be purple, she decides. 

 

“They’re going to think you were on drugs when you made that,” S.A. says, making a face at her painting. 

 

Amandla ignores him. It’s beautiful, this alien landscape she has created. She focuses on the painting before her but looks at him out of the corner of her eye, “Your father is very hopeful.”

 

S.A. draws some details on the landscape he is painting. She recognizes the site; it is Mauna Loa in Hawaii. Unlike Amandla, he has true talent for art. His own artwork is so vivid, Amandla can practically smell the water around the mountain scape and hear waterbirds chirping as they fly through the morning mist which is laced through the painting. 

 

Before the surgery, S.A. had spoken about going to the Ring of Fire and then Mars when he got older, to see volcanoes. He had the rest of his life in front of him, Amandla thinks, and so did she. Many years to spend however she saw fit when this was over.

 

“I don’t want him to be hopeful. Every time he does, I get sick again. I told him not to get excited but he did,” S.A. says, “This morning he was going on and on about how he wanted to donate to the university in your name.”

 

“Oh, he told me too,” Amandla says. She had asked that the money be given to building a new hospital, but not in her name. The new facility would carry the name of Chairman Jahloh, the head of the ethics committee. Everyone would think he had done something spectacular, even if no one knew what.

 

He had applied to the newly open position of Chancellor of a medical school in Morroco. His only true competition to the title was a professor from Canada with twice as many research articles and half of Chairman Jahloh’s connections. With his name on the new facility, everyone would be wondering what spectacular things he had done. He would be hired into the coveted new title and a new designee would be put on the ethics board, most likely the one she had vouched for, Dr. Lee, someone who wouldn’t block her petitions. 

 

For too many years, Chairman Jahloh had been the sole dissenter on her proposals regarding Amandla’s mother. She had used a pseudonym so no one would know of their relation, yet still he refused, almost gleeful in his rejections. The issue of consent is problematic in this case,” he had written in so many ways, so many times. It was ridiculous. Her mother could not consent but as her child and surrogate decision maker, Amandla could choose for her. She had secured all the necessary paperwork years prior and her report had indicated that. Her mother would want this, risks and all. Once he was gone, she could finally have the case she had always wanted.

 

“I’m begging you. Don’t do this,” S.A. says. 

 

Amandla looks up sharply. “It needs to be done.”

 

“Seriously, though?” S.A. says, “That green with that orange?”

 

Amandla looks down at her painting. When she had been lost in thought, she had made clouds with a putrid mixture of mandarin and asparagus. She crumples up the paper, says, “Give me another sheet.”

 

.

.

.

 

Human Experimental Subject Patient #066 was V.N. Her case is a major setback.

 

The DNA comparison takes approximately 18.9 minutes to complete. Not long for someone used to procedures that take hours and recovery periods where it might be weeks, months, even years before any sign of improvement occurs. Agony, however, for someone trying to find out why their patient had died.

 

V.N. had a single gene, one relatively small fragment of DNA, which had prevented the transplant of healthy tissue. Amandla had, of course, accounted for a rejection. Yet, the signs had been so very different from the symptoms she had been taught to recognize so many years ago in school, as it would be. The immune response to a foreign kidney would be different than the rejection of basal ganglia. It seems like such a foolish mistake even when there was no precedent to inform her practice. 

 

Amandla had not conducted the autopsy. She had no desire to. Dr. Wambui, her colleague, had informed her it had been complications of massive hemorrhagic stroke. 

 

How such a condition had been induced by their procedure was something of a phenomenon. The university wanted to publish on the case. Amandla had deleted nearly forty-eight messages asking for her input on the topic. 

 

“Save her,” V.N.’s daughter had begged as they were rushing V.N. away into emergency surgery.

“Save her.” As if Amandla wouldn’t if she could. As if Amandla wouldn't agonize over her every decision in the moments, hours, days that came after. 

 

V.N. had Huntington’s disease. Even with the latest medicine, the best care, the most extreme outcome, her life would have been cut short. Her family must know this on some level. Their procedure had been their only chance at healing her. It had been a risk, one that had unfortunately not been in their favor, but a risk nonetheless, and all parties should have accepted that.

 

It was easier for V.N.’s family to be angry at Amandla, the woman who couldn’t save V.N., the woman who couldn’t prevent the same genetic, autosomal dominant, disease from progressing in V.N.’s children and grandchildren. 

 

Hasna had brought her a snack, Amandla notes, most likely when she had been absorbed in the DNA analysis. Anyone else would have brought real food. Hasna had brought a bag of sour candy. Amandla cannot bring herself to touch it.

 

Imani had called her twice too. Both messages, which had been left after Amandla had ignored the calls, were the same. “This was not your fault.” After she had listened to the messages, Amandla had cried, briefly and then felt deeply ashamed for doing so.

 

She hadn't left her office for two days. She runs the DNA comparison over and over again. Each time it takes an irritating 18.9 minutes and each time it has the same result. Yet she always pulls another sample, runs the same test over again, and waits for another result. 

 

‘The definition of insanity is trying the same thing over and over and expecting a different result,’ her grandfather, the father of Amandla’s mother used to say. He's gone now. So is Amandla’s grandmother. Yet she can't help but wonder what they would think of her predicament.

 

If she were truly brave, she would confront her true fear. If Amandla had any compassion, she would test her mother’s DNA and determine if her mother could be brought back. She would save Commander Spock the pain which had been inflicted on V.N.’s family. 

 

She does not. Instead, she fills out a form, asking for another human experimental subject. 

 

Twelve hours after the form is officially submitted, Amandla receives a call. She answers it without taking her eyes off the upteenth DNA analysis which is being processed.

 

“It’s me,” Imani says without preamble, “I’m outside the lab. Can you let me in?”

 

Amandla knows exactly what Imani is here for. The university had mandated a psychiatric evaluation before she and her team could return to practice. Chiang, M’Ballah, and Hasna had already gone, told her all about the questions she could expect, but she still hesitates for several seconds before allowing Imani access to the lab. 

 

It is strange seeing Imani in the lab after several months without her. Imani glances around, her face expressionless. She says, as if no time has passed and nothing has happened, “How are you?”

 

“I was doing a DNA analysis,” Amandla says and then turns to go back to her office, lest she feel the need to say more. She hears Imani following her, the sound of which makes her pulse begin to pound.

 

Amandla sits down at her desk. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Imani sitting on the couch. Amandla clears her throat and begins, “So, around 1837, last Tuesday, I received a message which stated that our patient was experiencing severe hypotension. I ordered a dopamine drip for her and went down to do an assessment - ”

 

“I see you’ve spoken to the others,” Imani says. She calmly opens her PADD, a placid lake next to the storm that Amandla feels growing in her chest. “I have a pretty clear idea of what happened. I’d like to know about your response to  - ”

 

“What response?” Amandla says. Imani looks up at Amandla’s sharp tone. She holds up her PADD, to show her note-taking program is still opening. 

 

A silence falls between them as Imani waits and Amandla racks her brain for a response that will seem neutral.

 

“M’Ballah and Chiang were very clear about what they did during the resuscitation attempt for Mrs. Vivian Nial. M’Ballah tended to the airway. Chiang gave a fluid bolus, administered medication. However, Hasna mentioned that when she was getting the crash cart and calling for reinforcement, she noticed that you seemed to be, and these are her words, ‘in a trance’. Why don’t you tell me what happened, from your own perspective.”

 

“I don’t really remember. It happened quite fast,” Amandla says, “I’m really not sure what I did.”

 

“I think you do, Amandla,” Imani says, “Just tell me what you can.”

 

The blood is rushing past Amandla’s ears, roaring so loudly she cannot seem to focus on Imani’s words. Her friend’s eyes are on her. Amandla turns away, so that Imani cannot see her face. She says, softly, as if that will make it easier to forget, “At that point, there was nothing I could do. I tried everything that could be tried and nothing worked. I think that is what Hasna saw.”

 

“You are saying you had run out of options,” Imani says. 

 

Active listening. The tactic of those who have nothing to say. 

 

“That’s what I said,” Amandla snaps, “Now, I suppose you want me to tell you how that made me feel? What words do I need to say? It made me feel powerless. It made me hate myself. It made me wonder what the point was to any of this, if I couldn’t save this one patient due to a lack of skill.”

 

Imani is silent. She wants Amandla to continue. What is she looking for? 

 

So, Amandla gives her a half truth. “I wish it had been me and not her. Her only crime was putting her faith in me. I should have been better and she suffered.”

 

Imani stands, coming around the desk so stand in front of Amandla, where she cannot look away, “I spoke to Dr. Wambui. She reported that, based on her analysis of your team’s notes, her autopsy, and her review of the recording of the procedures, you all had done everything a prudent practitioner would do.”

 

It was true. Even after reviewing her actions a thousand times, she couldn’t think of a single things she should have done differently. It had all been habit, her hands moving without any direction. Still, Amandla says, “There is always more you can do.”

 

“Tell me what you’re thinking about right now,” Imani says, “And don’t you dare tell me you’re thinking of this patient and how bad you feel about doing everything absolutely right.”

 

Amandla glares at Imani but her friend stands over, staring right back her, unmoved by her furious look. “I’m wondering if this is how Commander Spock felt that day.”

 

Imani’s gaze is relentless. She asks, as if nothing Amandla had said is of consequence, “Tell me more about that day.”

 

“You already know,” Amandla counters. More than once she had surprised Imani, walking up just as her friend closed a news article or turned off a Starfleet press conference that she had been watching.

 

“I’ve never heard from you,” Imani says, “You were there. You know exactly what happened. I don’t doubt that you’ve never stopped thinking about it. Or is that an understatement?”

 

Amandla laughs. It’s a hollow, harsh sounding noise and it does not take away the tension in Amandla’s chest. “I was six but I suppose you knew that already.”

 

“I did,” Imani says, “but that’s alright. Tell me everything you can remember.”

 

“My mother and most of the medical team on the Enterprise had been sent to give aid to a planet, to save the population there from a plague. Then eight days into the project, they called the team back suddenly and put them in isolation on the ship. Commander Spock and Uncle Jim didn’t share much with me but I knew it was not going well. No one would tell me what was going on so I snuck into the isolation unit.”

 

“What did you find?” Imani asks, when Amandla doesn’t continue.

 

“They were dying. All of them. I didn’t know the whole story until much later. Starfleet had told them the plague was not pathogenic to humans but they had been wrong, so very wrong. The virus was attacking their nervous systems, causing the rapid growth of brain tumors. By sneaking into the isolation unit, I had become infected too.”

 

Imani doesn’t speak but she does not need to. The rest of the story was well known. The seventy-three members of the medical team had been put into cryostasis, by Uncle Jim, in the hopes that a cure would come for them. Yet, Amandla had survived.

 

Amandla touches her head, as if it is still pounding and burning with fever. It is easy to slip away, back to that time when they did not know if she would live or die.

 

“There was an experimental surgery on Vulcan, a device which could be implanted in the brain to stop the growth of tumors. The others were too sick. The ship did not make it in time. But me, there was still a chance for me. Commander Spock made the decision.”

 

For several moments, they are both lost in thought. The procedure had required that Amandla be conscious, capable of responding to neurological assessment to determine if the implantation was causing damage. She call still hear the shrill sound of the instruments and see her father, behind the protective barrier, watching. 

 

“I had the opportunity several years ago to operate on one of her crewmates. I couldn’t keep him alive but I isolated the virus, used it to make this procedure. I turned fate to my own needs,” Amandla says.

 

“You did,” Imani says, “What has that done for you?”

 

This time, Amandla speaks without encouragement. “I see her all the time. I see all of them. They smile at me like they used to, call out kind things to me, but all I know is the look in their eyes. Their eyes say, a thousand times and then a thousand more, “Have you earned this? Have you earned your life, which was saved, while we perished? And no matter what I do, I cannot displace that look in their eyes,” Amandla hesitates. Then she admits something she had never told anyone, “I can’t let them go or leave them behind. And I feel like Commander Spock did this to me. He is the same. He made me this way.”

 

Imani moves towards Amandla. Without a thought, Amandla grabs her, pulling her friend close. 

 

“You were meant to live,” Imani says, stroking her hair. 

 

Amandla nods, wanting to believe her. 

 

Then, as if hearing Amandla’s thoughts, Imani says, “I mean that. You’ve done so much good. Your mother, all those people, they would be proud of you.”

 

Amandla does not respond. She does not know what the crew or her mother would think. 

 

There should never have been a choice.

 

“I have to tell you something,” Imani says. Amandla leans back, her arms still tight around Imani. Her friend bites her lip and then blurts out, “They choose me to replace Chairman Jahloh on the Ethics Review Board.”

 

“You read my proposal,” Amandla says. 

 

“I did,” Imani says, “It’s your mother whom you want to revive, isn’t it?”

 

“Yes,” Amandla says, “She has been in cryostasis for over forty two years. The damage is too extensive. She would not survive without this procedure. I could bring her back. You know I could.”

 

“This wouldn’t give you anything back,” Imani says, “All the things you lost in those forty two years will still be lost.”

 

It is true. Amandla knows it is true. Yet an edge of desperation creeps into her voice as she says, “What do I have to do to get your approval?”

 

Imani’s face falls. Still, she says, “You don’t have to do anything. If you think you can do this, then do it. I’ll put her on the list. She’ll be number 73. We’ll schedule her surgery for after the semester break. We’re all getting a week off next month. I ask only that you use that time and talk to your father first.”

 

“I will,” Amandla says. Her skin is humming with a nervous excitement. “I will talk to him.”

 

Imani nods, pulling Amandla up, “Get up. You are coming with me. We’re going to get something to eat and then you can spend the night in our guest room. Don’t even try to pretend you don’t sleep here. I saw the blankets.”

 

Amandla puts on her jacket as Imani turns off all the lights in her office. They move into the hallway together where Imani takes hold of Amandla. As they walk, hand in hand, down to the stairwell, Amandla tries to find the right words for the questions she wishes to ask. Finally, she just asks, “How is T’Tal?”

 

“She’s fine,” Imani says, looking at Amandla out of the corner of her eye. “You know they offered her the position on the Ethics Board first. She said no, obviously. I will never know why. Do you?”

 

“No,” Amandla says too quickly. She truly doesn’t. Perhaps T’Tal thought she couldn’t handle such issues or simply that she couldn’t be objective. 

 

“You should talk to her too,” Imani says. 

 

.

.

.

 

The house wasn't the same to her. 

 

Amandla had paid for someone to keep the house clean and keep up the yard. The staff had done an impeccable job. There is not a trace of dust nor a weed to be seen. It looks like it does the day Amandla and Taka had first seen it, many years ago when they were newlyweds. It is not apparent that the house has been empty for months now. 

 

The lab had been closed for the break between semesters. All of the staff, even her team, had left campus. M’Ballah, Chiang, and Hasna had gone to Las Vegas. ‘Go home. Write a letter to Danae. Sleep for days,’ Imani had suggested when Amandla had complained to her about the forced vacation. 

 

Amandla had tried to write a letter and failed twice. Imani refused to help further, of course. She had simply told Amandla to “write something sweet.” That had left Amandla too irritated to sleep. Thus, here she was, at home. 

 

Amandla is even slightly surprised to see the refrigeration unit is empty. She places an order for more food. Just as she is putting down her communicator, she jumps as the sound of an incoming call rings through the kitchen. She answers after briefly looking at the identifying image on the screen. 

 

She had expected the call, prepared herself for it. It is Ambassador Sarek’s birthday and her grandfather and father had become very close in the past few years. She reviews the script she had rehearsed for this occasion before answering.

 

“Hello Amandla,” Sarek says. She had always found his voice deeply soothing. She smiles at him and his eyes soften around the edges. He turns the phone around in his hand and she can see her father’s face. “I am visiting my son and your father.”

 

“It pleases me to see you,” Commander Spock says. Sarek is holding the communicator awkwardly under to Spock’s face and the brim of Amandla’s mouth twitches as she finds herself looking directly into her father’s nasal cavity. 

 

‘ _ Speak of the devil and he shall appear _ ,’ her grandmother used to say when she saw Spock was calling their home in Mombasa. Amandla shakes her head to dispel the memory but her smile still drops.

 

“Hello Commander Spock,” Amandla replies. 

 

“We were just informed of Danae’s new record,” Sarek says, the screen still focused on Commander Spock’s nose, “I have recounted the news to my neighbors and companions multiple times. ”

 

“Thank you, grandfather but it was all Danae’s doing,” Amandla says. 

 

A text message passess across the screen. It is from Hasna and reads:  **‘** **The press is calling the lab and asking for you. What should I tell them?’**

 

**‘What do they want?’** Amandla writes back to Hasna. 

 

Then she tells Sarek, “Did you enjoy watching the race? Very gripping. I thought for sure her competitors would pass her but she kept sprinting as if nothing could stop her.”

 

**‘They want to talk about Asha,’** Hasna writes back. 

 

Hasna is referring to Human Experimental Subject #72, a five day old infant, born at 23 weeks and 2 days gestation, who suffered from hypoxic-ischemic encephalopathy. The procedure had been successful. Eight days after, however, the infant died from unrelated sepsis. 

 

“She seems to have inherited your predisposition towards implementing intensive effort at desired goals,” Sarek says. He watches her with soft eyes, oblivious to Hasna’s text messages. 

 

**‘I need to talk to the University first before I say anything to the press,’** Amandla writes to Hasna, barely able to keep the two conversations separate. 

 

“Amandla,” Commander Spock says, “Are you listening? You do not appear interested in the accomplishments of your only child.”

 

“I am listening,” Amandla snaps.

 

Yet, she is not.

 

The infant’s parents had hesitant to become attached to their sick child. Amandla had taken it upon herself to give the little girl attention. She had sat by the newborn’s bassinet and talked to the small baby, touched by the way the child’s vital signs stabilized when she was spoken to. 

 

The family had not wanted to name the child but the nurses had given her a nickname: Asha. 

 

“1:39:37:14,” Amandla says, “That was Danae’s time. She beat her goal by thirteen seconds, set a world record for a full marathon race by eight second.

 

‘Are you going to watch me race tonight?’ They had not spoken in weeks, yet Danae had wanted to say this to her. ‘Good,’ Danae had said when Amandla promised to watch, ‘I want you to see me.’ 

 

Amandla hadn’t watched. She had turned on the live feed of the games but allowed herself to become interested in the news articles and written opinion pieces regarding her experimental trials. She only knows about Danae’s time because it had flashed across the screen and she had been annoyed as it had drawn her attention briefly away from a popular piece from a prominent medical ethicist who wanted to ban her procedure for anyone who couldn’t unquestionably consent to the risks.

 

Commander Spock look down at her on the screen. Then he turns away, “Father, may I speak to my daughter in private?”

 

“Of course. Amandla, your absence causes me psychological pain. Please come and attend to me,” Sarek says. Amandla cannot help but notice there is a trace of self-satisfaction in his voice.

 

Sarek had called her, even after Commander Spock had been given her to her grandparents to be raised on Earth. When she had been very small, still fragile from the surgery, he had read Vulcan histories to her over the communicator. When she had been older, he had secretly sent her more books, beautiful poetry and stunning epics that she had read under her bed, at night when she was finally free from the rigorous homeschool education her grandparents gave her. Even now, he sent books to her, on her birthday.

 

Amandla had loved books. She hadn’t read for pleasure in years, she realizes. Even far away from him, in spite of everything, Sarek had given her books. Amandla’s tense muscle loosen just a bit and she allows herself to give her attention to Commander Spock. 

 

“I was reading about your procedure,” Spock says when they are alone. 

 

“Oh?” Amandla says. Her voice is higher than usual, the sound almost painful to her ears. 

 

She feels the intense urge to chew on her fingers but resists.  In the weeks that had followed Asha’s death, there had been calls for restrictions on the procedure, most of which are based on the false idea that it caused the newborn’s demise.  There has been much speculation but there is no legislation, no law restricting her yet. She has time. Her next case can be her last and she would be satisfied. The next case is what matters. It's what this has all been about.

 

Commander Spock does not speak on the news articles or the ethical dilemmas as she expects though. Instead he says, “I spoke to your friend Imani.”

 

“To what end?” Amandla asks. Imani and Commander Spock had been in correspondence since graduate school when Imani and Amandla had been roommates. With almost no prompting, Imani had taken it upon herself to provide Commander Spock with updates on his daughter, in spite of Amandla’s efforts to stop this infantilizing exchange.

 

“She was respectful of your privacy,” Commander Spock assures her, “However, she informed me that there is something you require of me.”

 

Amandla’s mind races with the possible topics of this discussion between her father and her traitorous colleague. Out of habit, she sets her brow to glare but then stops herself. Imani had not forced her to make any promises. She had simply encouraged Amandla to speak to the Commander and Amandla had to appreciate that gentle request. Her thoughts, old fears and unwanted memories, still float through her mind but she cannot touch them and they do not burden her. Unweighted, her tongue begins to move. 

 

“Go ahead,” Amandla says. 

 

The Commander seems surprised but he recovers quickly. She sees him pulls something out of his pocket and he begins to read, “I believe it was the first day of June. I was sitting next to your mother on when I smelled a strange new odor on her. I did not speak on it but I do believe I was aware of her pregnancy thirteen days before she was.”

 

Amandla has to smile at this. She had forgotten how strange he was sometimes. There could be no doubt as to where she had inherited her own eccentricities.

 

“It was a very difficult pregnancy but whenever I expressed concerns to your mother, she would say, quoting one of our favorite authors, ‘ The timeless in you is aware of life's timelessness.’ I never forgot that my time with her would be limited. I attempted to cherish every moment but I found that when it was cut short, it was my greatest fear fulfilled. Our time together had not been sufficient. ”

 

“You wanted her,” Amandla says. She leans away from the screen but she cannot escape him. “Only I survived though.”

 

“What led you to this conclusion?” Commander Spock asks, “What led you to believe I would prefer she survive rather than you?”

 

Amandla shrugs. It had been a fear without basis, she knows. Yet she cannot help but add, “You left me.”

 

“You have thrived in the past few decades. I am proud of you. Your achievements are proof I made the right choice, in spite of how felt about it,” Commander Spock says. 

 

“I wanted you,” Amandla snaps, “There was never a moment when I would not have given it all up to be with you again.”

 

“Amandla,” Commander Spock says, “You have been and always will be more than enough. For that reason, I must tell you this: your mother wished for you to be content. Your actions are not in accordance with this desire.”

 

It was in that moment that Amandla realized she was indeed very much like Commander Spock. 

 

Amandla takes a deep breath. Many articles she had read had discussed V.N., another patient who had perished after being cared for by Amandla. Two patients, out of 72. Less than 3% but still too much. Amandla wants to be angry or sad but when she had heard about the calls to restrict her procedure there is only relief. Soon, it will be out of her hands. It will not be her burden anymore. She forgets probability. This will be decided by fate.

 

Still, she cannot help but wonder. What did she want?

 

The doorbell rings. Her food has arrived.

 

“We will be together soon Samekh,” Amandla says, “I hope you find peace.”

 

Before he can respond, she hangs up. There is no table in the kitchen anymore so she eats sitting cross legged on bare linoleum. It is the first real meal she has had in weeks and she is ravenous yet she cannot finish. She looks about the empty home and a familiar ache runs through her. 

 

She pulls out her PADD and writes: ‘Dear Danae, I hope your leg injury is feeling better.’ Almost immediately she wants to erase the message, but Imani had advised her against this. So she adds, ‘I hope you are proud of your accomplishments for they are worthy of reverence. I hope you know I am extremely proud of your accomplishments.’ 

 

The rest comes out like a flood. ‘I hope you forgive me for what I have done to you. I hope you know that the decision I made were for selfish reasons but I made them with you in mind. I hope you understand that the endless nights and unsolvable problems were merely a distraction for me. I hope you know I wished things could have been very different. I hope you will believe me when I say things will be very different soon. I hope you realize that I cherish you.’

 

‘I hope you know I am sorry if I have made you feel unwanted as nothing could be farther from the truth.’ Amandla reviews it, reading it twice, checking the spelling and grammar, and then sends it.

 

.

.

.

 

“She is beautiful,” Hasna says. Amandla’s nurse leans closer to the transparent surface. She traces the number ‘67’ on the edge of the container. “She looks like she’s sleeping. 

 

Amandla reaches out to touch the humming machines. In spite of knowing they are alone, she has the uncanny feeling they are being watched. When she strains her eyes through the dimness of the room, she can make out the outline of row after row of blinking tubes, each of which are about three meters in length and two meters in width. 

 

Amandla stills, eyes closed and head bent. A strange sensation runs down her back. If she did not know better, she could swear she feels her mother’s kantra.

 

She had often wondered on the nature of the soul. No matter her accomplishments, such thoughts were humbling. The body has the same weight a moment before death as it had a moment after death. Not even the greatest scientist alive could say what it was that faded with one’s last breath.”

 

“Everything is ready,” Hasna says, “Nothing but the apocalypse could stop tomorrow.”

 

It is hyperbole but barely so. Many had been surprised how fast the laws had passed. There had been multiple clauses in the legislation which would have prohibited the procedure being performed on Nyota Uhura but Amandla had hired the best lawyers. Due to the timing of the Board’s acceptance, the courts had permitted it. 

 

“You should go home. Rest,” Amandla says. 

 

“Alright,” Hasna says, “You should rest too.”

 

“I will,” Amandla says. It was a lie. She had not slept in days. She could not stop thinking, not stop practicing. It was the only thing which kept her nerves under control.

 

Hasna leaves Amandla with the machines. Amandla could not bring herself to say so but the being in the machine did not look like her mother. The curve of the person’s face and the set of her eyes is familiar but it is not Nyota Uhura. 

 

Nyota Uhura had been an intensely intelligent gaze, many flawless renditions of innumerable alien languages, a gentle touch. She still would be, even after many lost decades, or so Amandla hopes. 

 

She hears someone coming down the stairs. Amandla had invited T’Tal but she had not expected her friend to come. 

 

“Hello,” Amandla says. 

 

“Hello,” T’Tal responds, looking intently at the rows of pods, “You requested I inspect the machinery?”

 

“Yes, I did,” Amandla says. She does not quite know how to react to T’Tal. Her friend is still staring at nothing, keeping a safe distance from her. 

 

“The university made the same request of me when the technology arrived. It will be sufficient for your needs,” T’Tal says. 

 

“I see,” Amandla says, “Why didn’t you just send me a message saying that?”

 

T’Tal is silent for several seconds, “Would you be able to give  me a ride home?”

 

Amandla opens her mouth, angry and ready to ask many questions before she notes the slight tremble in T’Tal fisted hands. “Sure.”

 

T’Tal does not speak despite her clenched hands and nervousness. She sits, as placid as a statue in the front seat, as Amandla begins to drive in the direction of T’Tal’s apartment. 

 

The sound of the signal at every turn seems to echo through the vehicle and finally Amandla cannot tolerate the lack of conversation, “I heard about your surgery. Are you feeling better?”

 

The moment the words leave her mouth, Amandla wishes she had remained silent. Bowel obstructions were common in artificial intestines. T’Tal had undergone multiple procedures to rectify issues with her synthetic organs. Amandla had even taken care of her friend during her some of her recovery periods but even in those times, T’Tal had never wishes to talk about her health issues.  

 

Then T’Tal adds, “It was an intussusception. The damage was quite extensive. I will need another procedure soon.”

 

“Did it hurt?” Amandla asks. In their second year of medical school, Amandla had found T’Tal on the floor in the hallway outside the university library. Amandla had been fifteen, and in spite of all her knowledge, she had been certain her friend was dying. Even hours later, after it had been determined that part of T’Tal’s sigmoid colon had ruptured and a successful repair had been completed, Amandla had stayed up for hours, marveling and envious of her friend’s resilience. 

 

“The pain was not excessive,” T’Tal says. 

 

It sounds like a lie. Amandla had seen one child with intussusception during her rotation in the emergency department during medical school. That individual had cried so hard Amandla was certain he would not survive long enough to be operated on. 

 

“I wish I could have been there for you,” Amandla says. She immediately turns on the radio as if this will drown out the sound of what she just said. It is a loud and obnoxious song and even though Amandla is not listening to the lyrics, she winces at the noise. 

 

It is almost a relief when T’Tal reaches out and turns off the radio, asking,“Are you in a romantic relationship with William?”

 

“No,”Amandla says. Her throat is tight and she can barely understand why.

 

“When I was younger, I was not expected to live long. Even as I grew older, I was certain I would not attain a normal lifespan,” T’Tal says. 

 

“I know. You’ve told me. You don’t want me to go through the process of losing you,” Amandla says, “And you know I don’t agree.”

 

They stop at the cross section. If she turns right, they will go to Amandla’s empty house. If they go left, Amandla will leave T’Tal to whatever devices she wishes. Amandla turns on the signal and then stops. She pull over to the side, turns on the hazard lights, and turns to look at T’Tal.

 

“I haven’t thought about my procedure in nearly thirty seven minutes,” Amandla says. She almost cannot believe her own statement but it is the truth. She had thought of her procedure incessantly for so many months, perhaps even years, but from the time she had seen T’Tal, her mind had been clear. 

 

“You usually ruminate, do you not?” T’Tal says. 

 

“I do. Not when you are with me though. I feel settled when you’re near. I think I always have,” Amandla says, “We cannot change the past. We cannot guess at the future. We can only control a few sweet moments. I don’t care if we have only a few years together.”

 

“Amandla,” T’Tal says. She cannot complete the thought even though Amandla forces herself to remain silent, to allow T’Tal to speak. T’Tal closes her mouth, put a hand out towards Amandla but stopping before there is contact.

 

“We don’t always get to choose the course of our lives,” Amandla says, shaking with excitement, “You know that as well as I do. Let me choose this.”

 

Then, their hands are touching and Amandla cannot be sure who reached for who. Amandla can feel her mind echoing through their bond. The silence between them sends a quiver of joy through Amandla’s spine. 

 

Amandla closes her eyes, savoring the stillness. It has been so long since she had been able to feel something besides guilt and when the burden is gone, it is liberating. 

 

She hears T’Tal moves towards her and Amandla opens her eyes. Her friend is trembling too now, like a leaf caught in a breeze and Amandla has to laugh at the sight. She reaches out and strokes T’Tal’s cheek

 

T’Tal pushes forward, her lips eager, her arms wrapping around Amandla’s neck. T’Tal pulls away, still clinging to Amandla, and asks, nearly breathless, “Is this right?”

 

Amandla grins, leaning in again, “It’s perfect.”

 

.

.

.

 

The number on the screen, the measurement of the body’s internal temperature, rises slowly. If the rate remains stable, the process will take approximately ninety-six minutes. After that point, they will move to the operating room which is thirty one feet away. By Amandla’s most conservative estimate, Nyota Uhura will take her first breath in nearly forty three years at 1307. 

 

“We’re going to have a Taurus,” Hasna says, coming to sit next to Amandla on the bench across from the machine which is gradually bringing their patient out of her extended cryostasis. 

 

“May 20th,” M’Ballah says, leaning against the wall, “A nice spring birthday.”

 

“Not too warm, not too cold, just right,” Chiang adds. She is pacing, bored by their waiting.

 

They all make a noise of affirmation but their gaze on the machine is unwavering. Amandla eats another handful of cereal from the container in her lap.  She had awoke that morning, ravenous, tearing through the entire shipment of food she had purchased the week prior. 

 

Amandla’s communicator shakes again, signaling another message has come in. Amandla glances at it. Danae again. Amandla doesn’t answer. She wants to wait until after to talk to her daughter. Right now, she must focus. 

 

Chiang reaches over Amandla’s shoulder to take some of the cereal and hisses loudly as her arm brushes against Amandla’s neck. “Boss, you’re so hot.”

 

M’Ballah coughs, “Easy Chiang.”

 

“No, she’s really hot,” Chiang says, awkwardly. She makes a vague gesture and then rushes to get a thermometer. Before Amandla can even respond, Chiang is taking her temperature. Chiang whistles as she reads, “100.3.”

 

Hasna hovers too, taking Amandla’s blood pressure and commenting on how high the reading it. “Maybe we should reschedule,” Hasna says.

 

“No,” Amandla says, “I tend to run hot. Plus, I’m a Pisces. I wouldn’t get along with my own mother is she is reborn a Gemini. This has to happen.”

 

Hasna opens her mouth but M’Ballah holds up a hand, “I’ll get her some acetaminophen.”

 

Amandla takes the antipyretic without protest. Thirty minutes, then an hour pass. Chiang takes Amandla’s temperature again and the reading is another degree higher. 

 

“It’s too late. Look,” Amandla says, just as Hasna begins talking about moving the procedure to another day and M’Ballah and Chiang are reluctantly agreeing with her. 

 

Inside the machine, their patient is beginning to move. Amandla’s mother stirs, her breath visible in the still chilly pod. 

 

M’Ballah moves, her actions guided by the many simulations Amandla had insisted they all take part in. She opens the pod, obtaining intravenous access with practiced ease, as she talks to the groggy Nyota in a calm voice, “Hello Commander Uhura. My name is Malcolm M’Ballah. I’m going to put you to sleep.”

 

“With medicine. Not her personality,” Chiang quips as she often does, her voice sharp and nervous. 

 

Amandla finds herself hovering over M’Ballah, going against their training, so that she can look down at her mother. Nyota has opened her eyes and Amandla notices for the first time that her mother’s bright, beautiful irises are very similar to Danae’s.

 

“Don’t talk,” Amandla says, as Nyota opens her mouth. She puts two fingers against Nyota’s palm, “Just relax. These are my people, my crew. We’re going to take care of you.”

 

There is a brief moment where her mother’s gaze is devoid of emotion. Then, to her immense relief, Amandla sees her mother smiles weakly at her, their bond humming with mutual affection. 

 

“We are gonna take care of her,” Chiang says, her voice crackling, “We are.”

 

Hasna rolls her eyes to Amandla behind Chiang’s back but Amandla can barely see through the tears which are building in her own eyes. 

 

Nyota moves, this time with more purpose, and her mouth forms words which are almost inaudible. Amandla has to strain to hear her but the words is somehow understandable, “How long have I been gone?”

 

“Not too long,” Amandla says, “We missed you.”

 

The OR is only thirty one feet away but Amandla can barely move. She wants to remain there forever, her hand in her mother’s but M’Ballah begins the process of sedating Nyota and Hasna is preparing for transportation and Amandla reluctantly lets goes of Nyota’s hand. 

 

“I’ll be here,” Amandla says, as she begins readying herself for surgery. The words seem to run together but she barely notices. Her body burns and she notes a dull pounding deep in her skull but they move forward and she follows. 

 

“Are you alright?” The question comes from somewhere in the room but Amandla cannot determine from where. Someone comes and puts their arms around Amandla but she can barely feel anything. She is sinking down, the floor hard on her body. 


	12. Chapter 12

He could not take his eyes off her.

When she was his student, he often found himself glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. He knew it would be gravely inappropriate to indulge his attraction for her but he found she always drew his eye, no matter how much he tried to exercise self-control.

The first time he had allowed himself to touch her, he knew he was lost. She had him. He knew for the rest of his days, he would always reach for her.

There are footsteps approaching. Nyota lies before him now in a nondescript hospital bed. There is a thick tube assisting her with breathing, another which supplies nutrition, and multiple wires monitoring her every bodily function. Yet all he sees are the eyes he had once wished would look upon him, the hands which he has still yearned to be touched by, and the lips he treasured.

As she is dying, he forces himself to feel nothing. He buries his emotions deep inside himself for he knows if he does not, he will be destroyed by them. The crew, his captain, and his Amandla need him.

She had known the mission was proceeding poorly. Her expressions had appeared false to him as they spoke but he had not questioned her. She would have thought such inquiries were an act of disrespect and he had not wanted to distract her. She had been necessary. The medical team had requested translation assistance. They had only achieved positive results through proper assessment.

Yet it is this idea which is the most ravenous, tearing him apart whenever he makes the mistake of contemplating it. Perhaps if he had commented and she had returned sooner, even if in anger -

He had been assigned to the medical bay after the away team had been returned to the ship. In this role, he had been tasked with performing brain imaging scans. He had been the first to see the rapidly growing masses, the one who had affirmed the need for isolation.

Spock had been consumed with finding a means of altering their prognosis. Jim had been the one to make the final decision. In the captain’s eyes, the away team had been betrayed beyond all measure. To the crew, he promised that their companions would not die. To Spock, when they were alone, Jim confided he could not bear the thought of letting them go.

The technicians begin to work on the patient in the bed next to Nyota’s and Spock knows he does not have much time left. He had never allowed himself to consider this set of circumstances. Such thoughts seemed like unfaithfulness. He is unprepared.

He touches her hand, as he once had in his passion and in affection. Their bond is silent. The staggering intellect, the deep compassion, the enduring zest, her true beauty is absent. Days prior, they had shared the last glimpses of her consciousness. She had thoughts of Amandla. He had promised to keep their child safe. She had thoughts of him. He had promised her he would find joy again. He did not know how to fulfill either promise.

The words he needs come, mercifully. He presses his lips to her cheek, saying in her ear, “Love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.”

The footsteps come closer. He clings to her hand, saying, reminding her, “K'diwa.”

They hesitate before they pull him away.

They strip away the tubes and wires. She is free. They move quickly, putting her into the machine that will preserve her until such time that they can reunite.

She is not gone, he forces himself to think. She is simply waiting for them.

Yet he knows better.

.  
.  
.

Amandla is crying but she cannot make a sound. She has been intubated with a device which runs down her trachea, assisting her with respiration. The device prevents her vocal cords from moving and allowing her to voice her protest of all of this.

Amandla wanted to be brave but everything hurt. When no modern medicine worked, they had given her chemotherapy treatment, ancient medicines which were no longer used because of their various side effects. She had become violently ill. Then they had tried radiation therapy. Neither achieved it's intended purpose. They had isolated the offending virus, given her the appropriate antiviral drugs, yet the resultant tumors in her brain grew undeterred, just as they had in the away team, just as they had in her mother.

Samekh is there. He refuses to let her to remove the breathing device. He had allowed them to restrain her arms and then later her legs too, when she had begun to kick anyone who entered her room.

He had been so furious when he found out she had snuck into the isolation area. She had asked everyone what was going on but no one would tell her anything. She had only wanted to know if her mother was alright. That was all. Her crime had been the simple act of placing a kiss her mother’s forehead and telling the sleeping woman that Amandla loved her.

Amandla wonders if he is still angry with her. She had begged him for forgiveness but he still refuses to look at her.

She had seen other visitors too. Uncle Jim came every night to read her a story through a microphone, from a chair behind the protective barriers. Some crewmembers had brought her flowers and stuffed animals, which the Vulcan physicians had refused to give her, due to the infection prevention protocol of their hospital.

Samekh does not leave her side as far as she can tell. Sometimes her fever rises and she is lost to a strange hazy world where the shadows speak to her and she sees things which are not there.

Another time she had awoken, surrounded on all side by physicians and other hospital staff. She heard them explain to Samekh that the tumors were pressing against her brainstem, which had made her stop breathing. That had led to the hated tube.

As the days pass, she begins to slip into darkness, sometimes for hours. Each time, the darkness lasts longer until she knows nothing but emptiness and her own unyielding body.

She can hear them when they come and speak to Samekh. They wish to do a procedure, one where they insert a device directly into her brain that will prevent the growth of the tumors through the application of mild electrical shock waves. If successful, they can use the device to administer medication as well, powerful antineoplastic agents which will assist in decreasing the size of the growths. It is their final option.

Amandla tries to protest this too but Samekh pushes her thoughts away and gives the doctors permission to proceed.

The anesthesia does not diminish her pain or consciousness. She can feel everything. That was acceptable to the doctors. It enabled them to perform assessments on her, determine if they were causing any permanent damage to her nervous system.

She does not want any of this. She wants freedom from this bondage. She does not want these memories. She wants to be with the others and her mother, where she belongs.

She hears them making note of her tears. They ask if Samekh wishes for them to continue. He gives his permission again.

.  
.  
.

Amandla throws herself on the cold, metal ground of the shuttle. Her body aches. She had been on bed rest for so long after her operation, any physical activity exhausted her. Her head hurts too and this appendage takes the brute of her frustration as she bangs her head against the floor.

All the eyes in the shuttle turn to her and then they all look at her father. Spock is unperturbed. He lifts her off the ground and holds her tightly against his body.

“You’re hurting me!” she screams. The eyes are on her again and finally she sees emotion in Spock’s face. He is upset with her behavior. Good.

She struggles but he is stronger. She has no choice but to allow him to hold her. She hangs dejectedly in his arms for the duration of the flight.

‘Neuroplasticity,’ that was the word that the Vulcan doctors had used when they had examined her earlier that week. There had been no lingering effects from her ordeal, against all odds. She had been so happy at the news.

She had been certain she and Spock would return to the Enterprise, to their home.

They are not going to the Enterprise, not now or anytime in the foreseeable future. The thought still fills Amandla with rage. She turns and bites Spock on the neck as hard as she can. Once again, he is unbothered by her anger.

When they disembark, Spock allows Amandla to ride astride his shoulders. The gesture usually put her in a pleasant disposition. Despite the fact that she was also fond of running her fingers through his hair and tangling the tresses, he often allowed her to be carried thusly.

She doesn’t not run her fingers through his hair, choosing instead to suck her thumb.

Amandla had been prone to ferocious tantrums in the weeks following her surgery. The physicians had ordered heavy sedatives for her, to prevent her from injuring herself. She demanded her father’s attention, falling into deep despair when he was not by her side. She could be comforted by no one but him.

When sedatives had no longer been necessary, Amandla had become terrified of the darkness, afraid she would slip away again and this time be gone forever.

Now she is silent but he knows she is not calm. He can feel the storm within her mind, which had been present since their discussion. It is only logical that she reside on Earth. For the foreseeable future, she will require medical treatment and assessments which the Enterprise is not equipped to provide her with.

Yet, she refuses to speak to him. He often caught her staring at him when she thought he was unaware.

He was unaccustomed to these behaviors. In the days since Nyota’s preservation, Amandla had changed profoundly and he was uncertain if he still knew his daughter as he once had.

He is acquainted with trauma, of course. Space was like fire. It could be kind, a tool to expand one’s surroundings and experiences, and in the same breath it could destroy without pity. After such disasters, many remember the casualties but few remember the survivors. He had learned this lesson twice.

He tells Amandla what Nyota would wish him to. That she will be loved, cherished, and cared for. It is the truth, a rarity for him in those days.

Nyota’s family wait for them at the shuttle port. Kamau and Alhamisi appear apathetic and listless. Nyota’s mother is a strange contrast, crying without restraint. Amandla is in Spock’s arms and when M’Umbha kisses Amandla’s cheek, his mother-in-law’s form brushes his own. It is a strangely intimate gesture and he immediately feels his mind wandering away from the situation.

Only Makena acknowledges him. She touches his arm, deliberate in her avoidance of direct touch. Her eyes look so much like Nyota’s in that moment, he feels a strange warmth in his chest. After his mother had died, when he was certain he would never feel peace again, he had once found hope again in Nyota’s arms.

He hands Amandla to Makena. His sister-in-law had always looked at him and not heard the vicious biases others believed. She will guide Amandla. She will keep his daughter innocent. Amandla will not be ruined by this.

His daughter clings to him, her shrill cries painful in his ears. He almost takes her back. The Enterprise could still be a home. The crew could still be their family.

He remembers his promise to Nyota. He steadies himself and pulls away.

“Spock!” Amandla cries out as he begins to leave. She is sobbing, gasping around her tears, but he cannot bring himself to look.

.  
.  
.

He returns for her twice, once soon after and then again many years past the fact.

The first time, Spock arrives late one night with Captain Kirk by his side. By then, three months have passed and Amandla and her grandparents have taken up residence in a familial farmhouse many miles outside the city.

“Are you sure this is the place?” Kirk asks, leaning over his shoulder to look at the house, “There's no toys in the yard or anything.”

A light shifts in one of the windows. It's Nyota's mother. Spock removes himself from the vehicle without answering Kirk.

M’Umbha opens the door for them. Much to his surprise, she greets him. There is a different emotion in her eyes. Her fear of him had always been distinct from Alhamisi’s. Nyota had once told him that her mother had been married once, before meeting Alhamisi, to a man who had been her university instructor. Then Nyota had been silent, as if she had given away a secret that was not hers to impart.

Alhamisi’s complaints of him had always been based on character traits he perceived in Spock: a lack of passion and empathy. M’Umbha’s complaints had been speculative. She had warned Nyota that her life with Spock would be unhappy, that her future held bondages, an existence, without the love she thought she had, that she had no hope of escaping with ease.

Now, seeing Spock in her foyer, she smiles, leads him to the bedroom which Amandla now occupies.

The space is just as sparse as the yard. Spock sees Kirk looking around with a disapproving expression.

Amandla is sprawled out across the massive bed. The covers are moved in such a way that Spock is confident M’Umbha was sleeping next to her granddaughter.

It is painful to look at her, the moonlight bright on Amandla’s shorn head and still visible surgical scars, and he finds his gaze wandering. There is a multitude of digital files on the desk across from Amandla’s bed.

There had been many reasons to come to Amandla when they had been aboard the Enterprise. Now those reasons fail him in the face of the truth. 

M’Umbha presses closer to Spock, silently encouraging him to enter the room.

He cannot proceed. Amandla had not slept so peacefully while in his care since Nyota's departure. Spock glances around the room. M’Umbha and Alhamisi had taken great care to provide for all of Amandla’s needs, that much he can ascertain.

“Is she content?” Spock asks. This had been Nyota's deepest desire for Amandla. Not that their child would pursue fleeting moments of happiness or any true aspiration but only that she would be content, deeply satisfied with her own life.

“What?” M’Umbha asks.

“Is she content?” Spock asks again. Kirk is looking at him but Spock cannot bring himself to care. This was the duty he and he only had been given when he had been given his daughter.

M’Umbha balks but finally says, “She has just finished her third grade course work. We wished to move her on to the next level but we were told we had to wait until she turned seven. She loves school. I think it distracts her. She says she wants to be a scientist.” M’Umbha pushes him gently now, impatient at Spock’s hesitation. Amandla begins to stir at the sound of them talking.

“We must go,” Spock says. He turns but M’Umbha blocks his way. He can see Kirk again, out of the corner of his eye but none of that is of consequence.

“I don't want to leave her,” Kirk says. Spock looks down on him. Is the captain such a fool that he believes Spock wants to leave his only child here?

Spock must do this. There is nothing left for her in space. He has a duty to fulfill. For her, there is only memories and his own suffering.

On Earth, she could have a long and happy life. She could attend school, have a family, be safe. That is his aspiration for Amandla.

“This is necessary,” Spock replies, more for himself than them. Perhaps that is why he had made this sudden journey. He wish to strengthen his resolve.

Yet, he makes the mistake of looking to M’Umbha. Her eyes have lost their gentle expression. She looks at him, with a hard, unfeeling gaze.

Six months later, he receives custody papers. Nyota's parents wish to have full rights to Amandla, citing educational and healthcare reasons. He understands. It is a matter of convenience.

It feels like an insult as well.

It takes his three days and Kirk voices his discontent extensively but he gives M’Umbha and Alhamisi what they wish for.

.  
.  
.

The summer after her fourteenth birthday, Amandla receives early admission from eight medical schools. A few months later, she receives admission from fifteen more universities.

It is extremely exciting to know she can choose where she wishes to go to graduate school. For her undergraduate, she had gone to Nairobi University, her grandparent’s former employer. Amandla had been nine at the time and had very little say in the matter. That was not to say she hadn’t enjoyed college. She had majored in Biochemical Engineering at the insistence of her grandparents along Classics and Terran Literature for herself and minored in Music Theory and Prionology more out of interest than a desire to pursue them as career options.

“I thought you wanted to take a year off? Spend some time on Mars with me? Do research?” Aunt Makena asks.

“She wants to go to medical school,” M’Umbha says before Amandla can respond, as always, “And she has acceptances now. There’s no point waiting.”

“She’s so smart, I’m sure all of the schools would wait for her. She’s so young! Let her have some experiences out of school,” Aunt Makena says. She tries to smile but the hidden message is apparent. Aunt Makena had never approved of the rigorous homeschooling program her parents had put Amandla through.

This too annoys Amandla. She had wanted more of everything her grandparents had given her. She could never have too many books to read or be exposed to enough new concepts. Amandla had been just as involved in the program as her grandparents. It was rude of Aunt Makens to assume Amandla had been forced.

Even now, Aunt Makena looks at her, her expression chiding. She wants Amandla to give credence to what she is saying.

“It’s my choice, not yours,” Amandla responds, looking at Aunt Makena.

Alhamisi looks pleased, “You see? She’s our child. Let us raise her.”

“She’s your grandchild,” Aunt Makena says, “What does Spock think?”

“Who can know?” M’Umbha says, “He’s so deep in space, we never hear from him and he’s not even here now.”

M’Umbha is referring to the dinner she and her husband had thrown in honor of Amandla’s acceptances. Only Aunt Makena had come. Amandla couldn’t blame any of the invitees. She and her grandparents lived in the middle of nowhere and it would have been a huge hassle for any of their family members to come anyway. Amandla didn’t have friends either. She hadn’t even expected her aunt to come.

Later, when M’Umbha and Alhamisi are downstairs cleaning up, Aunt Makena makes one last attempt. As she and her niece watch the news, Aunt Makena pulls Amandla close, kissing the young girl on the cheek and whispering in her ear, “I love you, and if I annoy you, I’m sorry. I just want what is best for you.”

“Do you?” Amandla says. Before that night, she hadn’t seen her aunt in three years. Even calls and messages had been scarce. It was understandable. Aunt Makena was a prolific writer, an instructor at multiple universities, and was often off planet conducting extensive research. Who could fault her for forgetting this sad house and it’s occupants?

“I do,” Aunt Makena says, visibly distressed by Amandla’s response. She pulls her niece’s face towards her and Amandla can feels her aunt’s despair.

Amandla pushes the hand away. She is tired of carrying the guilt of others.

“Is this really what you want? I will only ask one more time and then never again. If you say yes, I will let it go. If you say no, I will do everything I can for you,” Aunt Makena says. “So, yes or no?”

The day before, they had reviewed the universities and their programs. They were already ready to confirm with the University of Addis Ababa. Alhamisi liked that she had been accepted into a program that would provide her with both M.D. and PhD degrees and encouraged research and faculty mentorship. M’Umbha liked that the university facilitated connections between students, faculty, and alumni and offered multiple opportunities outside of the classroom for learning. Amandla liked that it was hundreds of miles away and she could finally the space she needed to make a name for herself.

“Yes,” Amandla says. Then she turns up the volume and tries not to notice that Aunt Makena looks close to tears.

That night, Amandla climbs out of her room on the third floor of the farmhouse and onto the roof. When she had first come to her grandparent’s home, she had often come and hidden there, to watch the stars and pretend she was once again among them.

At times like this, the roof was a different escape. Amandla creeps to the edge, her feet unsteady on the tiles. She had never liked heights and her stomach begins to turn at the sight of the ground so far away. She is only 31.2 feet up in the air. She would likely be injured but would survive a fall. In spite of this knowledge, her heart begins to pound. Sweat builds on her body. Amandla feels cold and dizzy but she leans forward, just enough that everything seems to become duller and quieter.

She spreads her arms, tipping up onto her toes. She is well-practiced and knows she will not fall. She has never fallen.

She doesn’t want to overcome this fear, although that is part of it. She spends all of her time feeling pain. It was not fair. It had been years but the ache was still fresh and inescapable.

This, however, the experience which made her heart pound and her mind settle, made her feel alive.

There was another reason she wanted to attend the University of Addis Ababa. It was the home of the Odeku Neurological Laboratory. For years, she had devoured any bit of information which came from the laboratory, from press releases to scientific articles, fascinated by the work which was done there.

She cared about all the projects they worked on, from surgical corrections of congenital abnormalities, traumatic injuries, and neurological disorders to the research on new therapies to the training of new doctors and hospital staff.

Yet, she had heard stories about psych patients becoming psychologists and psychiatrists to understand themselves and she couldn’t deny that some news resonated with her more than others.

Odeku was the kind of place where her mother might had survived. Perhaps if she went there, she wouldn’t fear every headache was a sign of impending death or wonder if a day would ever come when her mother wouldn’t live in limbo. Her luck and their luck could be very different. 

She need not come to this roof and pretend to fall to feel alive. She spent so much time in the shadows but she could be more.

.  
.  
.

Andorian whiskey is perhaps the foulest liquid Amandla has ever tasted. It was a unique experience with subtle undertone of what she assumed rotten wood would taste while also making her tongue feel as if someone had set it on fire.

When she articulated this observation to Batu, her classmate who had supplied the beverage to their first student mixer, he chuckled and said, “It got me through some hard times back when I was getting my master’s degree. The trick is to keep drinking until the taste doesn’t bother you anymore.” Then he passed everyone at the table another shot. Amandla watched everyone take a sip and then partook in her own offering, trying not to make a face. A few of her classmates had looked uncertain when she had sat down at the table but no one had said anything when she had taken cup after cup. She had felt strangely old as she drank, in spite of her disgust.

It was not their first round of drinks. They had passed around at least five bottles of champagne (Amandla had lost count) as each person around the table shared bits of their personal stories. Almost everyone at the table was exceptional. Aba had written three textbooks on particle physics “for fun.” Dalili was a Rhodes scholar. This was Kizza’s third doctorate. Mhina had had five majors in college and had graduated in two years. Zahara had fifteen patents and was a multibillionaire.

There was only one classmate who hadn’t made Amandla want to wither into herself. Her name was Imani Bakkari and when she had told everyone she was an acrobat, Doris had laughed so hard, she had choked on beer. Imani had smiled tightly and then said, “No, really.” Then Imani had told them all about her family’s circus, how she was the oldest in her family, that she had twelve brothers, ten of whom were adopted, and how her father had called his thirteen children his “Bakkari’s dozen.”

“It was hard to leave them. My mama always said, when you’re born into a circus, you have no dreams to escape to and you will always feel trapped but I never did. I promised myself I’d only leave if I got into the best program. I never thought it would happen but then it did,” Imani says. She babbling and it seems more nerves than the alcohol.

“And what did you study?” Victor asks.

“Logic and Philosophy of Science. I did it through a distant learning program so I could stay home,” Imani says, “Who knows why they thought that was a good major for someone going into medicine.”

“They must like touchy-feely crap,” Tia says. Even Amandla winces at this statement.

Imani nods, “Yeah. I don’t know. I don’t know why they choose me at all.”

An awkward silence filled the room after that. They had already heard a dozen stories about research projects and faculty mentors. That had prompted Batu to suggest shots.

It was around that time that Amandla noticed another odd person was in their group. She had introduced herself as T’Tal and she had told them all she was a biomedical engineer from Indonesia. Amandla had noticed T’Tal’s pointed ears and the slight green tint to her skin but she did not look like a full-blooded Vulcan. She was small, at least six inches shorter than Amandla despite the fact that she had told them she was twenty three years old and she was quite possibly the skinniest person Amandla had ever seen. She was also the only student not drinking, most likely, if her hijab was any indicator, for religious reasons.

There is something very familiar about T’Tal but Amandla cannot say where she knows the Vulcan from. At one point, she hears Sarai reach over and offer T’Tal a drink, saying, “For our medical celebrity.” T’Tal refuses the drink and Amandla remains confused. 

After the whiskey, there is more champagne and some drunken toasts where everyone congratulates each other on everything and then there is beer and wine and then more hard liquor. People begin to wander away from the table but Amandla is having trouble standing.

Once she had heard Uncle Kamau and Aunt Maken argue about whether Vulcan hybrids could get drunk. Aunt Makena had been right in the end. Vulcan hybrids could get drunk.

Very drunk.

She sees another drink in front of her. In spite of everything, her mind is delightfully blank. It has been so long since she was so free. Why had she always gone to the roof when such wonderful feelings could be had from a bottle? The last thing Amandla remembers is reaching for the drink.

She is awoken, sometime later, when her head is slammed against a wall. Someone is carrying her but she can barely see them. Just before she passes out again, she hears them mutter, their voice slurring, “Sorry.”

The next morning, she is awoken by an alarm which she didn't set. The sun feels like razor blades on her eyes. Whoever had brought her back to her apartment had always placed pillows around her so that she was lying on her side. They had always left some analgesics and a glass of water on the table next to her. Amandla chugs the water in one sip, fumbles to administer the analgesia, and then crawls from the bed to the kitchen where she proceeds to drink an entire pot of coffee.

When she is finally able to lift her head, she manages to see the time. Her first class begins in exactly three minutes.

She sprints across the campus bursting into the classroom just as the professor is droning, “ . . . anatomy requires the utmost respect for the anatomical gift of - and who might you be?”

“Amandla Uhura,” she says, breathless from running. Several of her classmates are grinning at her and she wishes she were on another planet. Her memories of the night before were vague at best. What had she done in front of them?

“M’Barka. It was kind of you to show up. Sit down,” the professor responds.

Amandla slinks into a chair in the back row. Batu, who is sitting next to her, leans over and whispers, “You got pretty wild last night, didn’t you?”

She cannot even fathom a response to that statement. Amandla’s face burns so much she is certain she will combust.

“I was going to save this for the end but since I was interrupted, let’s just get this over with now. Take out your PADDs. Thirty open ended questions. I only accept perfect spelling,” Dr. M’Barka says, taking his screen until the pop quiz shows up on each of his students’ screens, “You have ten minutes.”

Amandla had gone through the textbooks, of course, but her skulls is throbbing and she can barely see straight. The picture before her is of a femur bone but there is an arrow pointing to a nearly indiscernible dent in the bone. She has absolutely no idea how she is expected to respond to the offending arrow placement. She scrolls down the quiz. There are more arrows, unfortunately.

Amandla stares at the screen of her PADD for a solid minute before finding a question that there is a small chance, maybe, possibly she knows the answer to. Then she finds three more questions which she might answer correctly. She glances around to see her classmates are writing quickly and forces her attention back to her work. She goes back to the first question, writing terms which seems vaguely coherent. Her heart is pounding. The next answer is just as belligerent. As is the next one. And the one after that. And the one after that until -

“Time,” Dr. M’Barka says. He taps his screen again and the quiz disappears from Amandla’s screen. He makes a few more taps and another page appears before her eyes. It is a seating chart.

“Please move to your new seat,” Dr. M’Barka says.

Amandla’s new seat is in the last row, to the far left of the room. She moves quietly, looking to see where others are sitting. Imani is three seats away. T’Tal is in the front in the corner.

Moments before Dr. M’Barka tells them the reasoning behind their new seating arrangement, Amandla is aware of why she is in the back, in the very last seat.

“You are now seating by order of highest grade to lowest grade,” Dr. M’Barka says. Immediately, the entire class turns to see who’s last. Amandla contemplates ducking under her desk. Then they turn to see who’s first. It’s T’Tal, who drinks placidly from her water bottle, unperturbed by their attention.

“I like your seat T’Tal,” Kezi says.

“I do too,” T’Tal says.

Some of their classmates chuckle at this dialogue. Bodero pats Amandla on the back, saying in a low voice to her, “Maybe we can blame the hangover?”

Amandla does not understand how this is funny.

“You have a test on Friday. I hope to see changes in your seating arrangement,” Dr. M’Barka says, “Particularly those of you who got two correct answers.”  
`  
His eyes fall noticeably on Amandla.

They are given a fifteen minute break and then the next class is Patient Relations. The professor, Dr. Matabang, greets them pleasantly and then informs them that they will be going through a simulation.

They are crowded into an observation anteroom and one by one, they each have a turn in the neighboring room, where an android is waiting. Their prompt is this: they must inform their patient that she has six months to live.

Some are so blunt; a shudder passes through the room. Others act as if they are extremely eager to leave the entire time. One student begins the simulation well but becomes distracted by the whispering going on in the next room and begins to stumble, eventually leaving the room with tears in her eyes.

Without prompting, the students give their feedback on each of their classmate’s performance. A lucky few are simply laughed at. Others get hushed commentary: “I’ve seen tumors with more personality than that”; “I bet the patient is happy that six months from now she’ll never have to see this guy again!”; “Look at her shake. It's a fake patient!”

These are the more polite comments.

Only one student does exceptionally. Imani takes the longest out of the group. She sits with the patient, demonstrates an admirable amount of empathy for a person talking to a robot, answering more than questions that can be counted. When she leaves, she promises the android she is here for them, ready to give any support needed, and it doesn't seem false at all to Amandla.

Naturally, the students have comments for this too.

“That’s our diversity. She’s here to teach us a lesson about compassion,” Kidero tells Professor Matabang.

“Actually,” Professor Matabang says, “She is your colleague and they picked her because they believed she will be an excellent physician. I believe that was the finding for all of your classmates.”

Amandla likes Professor Matabang.

Five more of her classmates go through the simulation after Imani but Amandla can barely hear a thing they say or remember what they do. Her own name is rapidly coming up the list.

Despite watching multiple students do so, when it is her turn, it takes Amandla three tries to open the door to the simulation. She can hear someone behind her snickering at her struggle and pushes her hands into her pockets to hide her shaking fingers. She calls out, her voice choosing that unfortunate moment to crack, “Hello.”

The android patient turns and repeats the greeting. Amandla can hear her classmates in the next room, in spite of her attempts to ignore them. In the patient’s flat, glossy eyes, she can see her own reflection. Amandla looks small and fragile.

“I’m sorry,” Amandla whispers.

“For what?” the patient asks.

“I have bad news. Based on my assessments and tests, I do not believe you will live more than six months,” Amandla says, the words thrown from her mouth.

“What about my family?” the patient says.

Amandla opens her mouth but she cannot form a single coherent thought. The silence drags by for what seems like an eternity and finally, she can take it no more. She shoves back into the anteroom. Every single one of her classmates is staring at her but Amandla looks at Professor Matabang as she says, “I didn’t know what to do.”

“You can learn,” Professor Matabang says.

She wants to tell the professor and everyone else that she has never had this experience before. Many years ago, she had been protected from such declarations of bad news. As little as she wants to admit it, she is young.

There is no point though. They all know already.

Back in her apartment, when she is finally alone, she devours three bags of Atomic Ice Lemon chews. There are tears running down her cheeks but she shoves another fistful of candy into her mouth and ignores the ache in her chest. A part of her wishes for home and not the old farmhouse. Home has come to mean a feeling, the sensation of being accepted and adored without hesitation. 

Why had she thought this would be possible? She was just a silly teenager who had been good at doing schoolwork with her grandparents, who knew very little beyond a roof she liked to pretend to jump from and a sad childhood. 

She dials the number, listening to the ringing. Each time there is a pause, she thinks there she hears someone answering. On some level she knows the Enterprise is too far away to pick up a transmission from her communicator but a small part of her wonders if the commander sees her number and doesn’t want to answer.

Someone knocks on the door. Amandla’s luggage has been arriving consistently for the past several days. She glances at herself in the mirror in the bathroom before she goes to answer. Her eyes are still red but she looks more tired than sad. Good enough. 

It is not the postman. It is her classmate, Imani.

“Hi there,” Imani says brightly despite the fact that she is wringing her hands nervously, “I was just wondering if I left my shoes here?”

Amandla stares, still confused by the fact that she has answered the door to Imani and not her things from home, “I haven’t seen anything.”

“Ah. I’m sorry. It’s just I was here so long last night getting you settled and your carpet is so nice but I mean your entire apartment is so nice, I mean much nicer than ours, and I didn’t want to ruin anything so I thought I must have taken them off while I was here but you didn’t need to know any of that,” Imani says, “Oh! And I’m sorry the alarm didn’t go off. My communicator is much older than yours. I wanted to make sure you got to class but I must have set it wrong.”

“It’s fine. Really,” Amandla says, “The alarm did wake me up. I just wasn’t feeling well.”

“That,” Imani says, “Don’t worry about that. The others were just being jerks. Everyone goes through that. It’s hard to know when to say when. On my twenty second birthday, I got so drunk; I hit on my mother’s best friend in front of my entire family. I do not know why I told you that,” She watches Amandla for a moment longer and then adds, “I saw you didn’t have any food.”

Amandla shakes her head, “What?”

“I wasn’t snooping,” Imani says, “I was looking for pain medicine.”

“In the kitchen?”

“Can I just be friendly and invite you to dinner?” Imani asks, “We’re classmates. We should support each other.”

Amandla thinks of the call she had been trying to make. She imagines a room filled with family and then the emptiness of the student housing. She finds herself nodding, “What are you making?”

“I don’t know,” Imani says, as if this were not the response she thought she would get, “Curry?”

“I like curry,” Amandla says. Imani smiles and Amandla feels her own lips twitch, “Let me get my coat.”

As it turns out, Imani has no reason to feel lonely. She has not one but three roommates. Their classmate Lawrence has the smaller bedroom, another medical student, Kidero has constructed a tent-like structure in the living room, and Imani is sharing the master bedroom with T’Tal. Four people crammed into the same space Amandla has all to herself.

Imani makes enough curry for all five of them. Around the table, sitting close enough that they bump elbows, Amandla begins to forget the day, especially when Kidero begins complaining about the simulation, “I could barely breathe. I can't even remember what I said.”

“That just means you care,” Imani says, “We will all get better.”

“What about all these other tests? It's so much!” Kidero adds.

“Such skills can be cultivated,” T’Tal says.

“You really think so?” Amandla asks. 

“I do,” Imani says, “They picked us for a reason. We can handle it. We can all do this.”

Imani smiles at her. It had been so long since an adult has spoken to her, really spoken to her, and heard her responses without agenda or issue. 

After dinner, to Amandla’s immense relief, no one insists she leave. Imani, Lawrence, and Kidero play cards around the table while she and T’Tal watch a holo. 

Amandla can barely focus on what is happening on the screen. Imani has hung dozens of pictures of her family on the wall already as have Kidero and Lawrence, albeit to a lesser extent. 

Amandla’s grandparents had been reclusive. It is strange to be in another person’s home. It feels almost intrusive to look at the lives of others so closely. 

Yet she cannot help but notice. There are no pictures featuring T’Tal. Amandla can’t help but watch the woman next to her. T’Tal has the fine bone structure and distinctive features of a Vulcan but there is something undeniably different about her. 

As if feeling the younger girl’s eyes on her, T’Tal turns. 

“Where are your pictures?” Amandla asks to cover the awkwardness.

“I need no pictures,” T’Tal replies, “My memory is reliable.”

They watch each other for a moment and then Amandla hears it. A dull rumble, as if T’Tal is hungry, but the sound is much too mechanical. 

Amandla opens her mouth and then closes it. She had read about the Vulcan infant in many medical textbooks, the premature baby who had developed necrotizing enterocolitis which had destroyed a large portion of the newborn’s digestive tract. New Vulcan had not had the resources to care of the child, for whom the prognosis was grim yet sympathetic humans from a nearby research vessel had taken her to Earth, for hospice care. That child had later been the first recipient of an artificial small intestines. Subsequent literature had covered the extensive complications which had come along with the procedure. 

There had been a news article about T’Tal from about ten years prior which Amandla had read. There was one short line about the child’s current status - “The patient now resides on Earth, as a foster child of one of the nurses who care for her”. There had been a picture too, of a Vulcan teenager with empty eyes who wore the same expression T’Tal now gives Amandla. 

Amandla is leaning forward without meaning to, the bare skin of her finger so close to T’Tal’s uncovered hand that she can feel the buzz of the woman’s thoughts. T’Tal is thinking about a program she had seen about an innovative neurosurgery which had been performed on a six year old, a child who had been raised onboard the USS Enterprise. 

Amandla jerks away but not before she feels what T’Tal feels: a gentle curiosity and a mild sense of kinship. Amandla feels the same and then something more which she promptly ignores and desperately hopes T’Tal didn’t notice. 

When Amandla leaves that night, Imani hugs her. At first, Amandla is taken aback. Yet she is not opposed to the affection and finds herself clinging to Imani. 

“You look lost,” Imani whispers in her ear, “You don’t need to be. You’re right where you’re supposed to be.”

It is not until much later that Amandla realizes that Imani is talking herself away from a ledge just as much as she is encouraging the younger girl. Imani allows them to lean on her but gets support back from them. It is as close to friendship as Amandla has ever had and it does not stop there. 

Amandla comes believe. Not that night. She goes back to her own apartment and tries to read the entire anatomy textbook. It is three weeks before she finally accepts another invitation from Imani to study with the four roommates. Kidero has a knack for Patient Relations just like Imani and when they give Amandla advice, it is sensitive and easy to implement. There is not a single blood vessel or organ system or bone mark which T’Tal does not know and Lawrence never tires of doing memory drills. 

It is never easy but it becomes manageable. In all, it is three months before Amandla begins to believe that they can indeed do this, but when the time does come, she cannot even remember what the doubt felt like. There is only the future and possibilities before them. 

Their first year comes to an end. They decide to rent a house together for the next term. They cover the walls with pictures again. Next to the old family pictures, Amandla hangs photographs of herself with her friends.

.  
.  
.

He returns for her twice, once soon after and then again many years past the fact.

Amandla is waiting for him in the lobby of his hotel. It has been eight and a half years since he last saw her. He had never expected to be away from her for so long and feels an intense guilt when he barely recognizes her.

He sees her in the curled into a corner, leaning over a PADD. Her hair is loose, her wild curls running down the sides of face and down her shoulders and chest. The light touches her face in an aesthetically pleasing manner, highlighting her delicate cheekbones, high forehead, and pert chin. She is tall, perhaps taller than Nyota had ever been, with the same thin frame. The most striking change is in her eyes. They had once been a dark brown but with age, they had lightened, becoming a dark gold with traces of green. The afternoon sun illuminates her irises as she reads. 

He had once so easily seen himself, Nyota, and his mother in Amandla. Those traits are still there yet he finds she has become a woman who is uniquely herself. 

She looks up from her PADD as he approaches. He nods his head towards her and she smiles back, her hands going to tie her hair back before she stands to embrace him. He was correct in his assessment: she has indeed grown to be taller than Nyota. He finds there is a sharp pain in his chest when Amandla pulls away. 

“There’s a cafe nearby,” Amandla says, gathering her things, “I’m sorry to rush you but I have to get back to the hospital. My friend was admitted but when I went to see her last night, she turned me away. I want to try again before I go back to work.”

“I will take any time you give me,” Commander Spock replies. When she had invited him, he had cleared his schedule for the day. 

 

They walk to the restaurant, talking amicably about her research with the Odeku Neurological Laboratory and his recent excursions. She laughs as he tells her about Uncle Jim’s antics and he feels tightness in his chest again. He tells her another story and is pleased when she chuckles again.

He had anticipated this visit since she had extended the invitation. He is eager to resume a relationship with her. 

After they sit down at the table and are given menus, Amandla pulls out her communicator and discretely begins looking at messages. When she sees that Commander Spock has noticed, she grins sheepishly, “I’m presenting when I get back. I just needed to respond to some people wishing me good luck.”

“You will do exceptional,” Commander Spock says, “I have seen many recordings of your presentations. You have a talent for making your topic of discussion interesting. Captain Kirk has articulated a similar finding.”

“Thank you,” Amandla says, her cheeks flushing, “I had no idea you watched me present.”

“I have followed your career extensively,” Commander Spock says, “I just finished your paper on Paraphysial Cysts of the Third Ventricle. It was excellent. I included it in my report.”

“That’s - Your report?”

“Yes,” Commander Spock says, “I thought you were aware. At the end of this year, Starfleet will complete construction of the USS Sunrise. It is a research vessel, the best in the fleet. You were selected to serve on it. They asked me to perform an assessment on your abilities.”

“I didn’t apply for that,” Amandla says.

“There were no applicants. The roles onboard the Sunrise will be very specific. Starfleet sought individuals who they deemed relevant to their needs. We will be submitting offers next month. We do not anticipate many rejections.”

“What was your assessment of me?” Amandla asks. Her voice is neutral but he hears the underlying threat. 

“You were one of the final selections for Chief Science Officer. In my report, I stated you should be chosen. You were not the most qualified but you were the applicant with the most potential. I believe under our supervision, you could thrive.”

“Would I be in space again?” Amandla asks.

“Yes. You would interact closely with the Enterprise,” Commander Spock replies, “I personally gave advice on safety measures. You would be well protected. I saw to that.”

“This is crazy,” Amandla whispers under her breath.

“How so?” Commander Spock asks, “You have always been extraordinary. This position would be a superb opportunity for you to - ”

“No, I know,” Amandla says, “It’s just so weird to me that you brought this up today of all days when I brought you here to . . . ” Amandla pauses, “I can’t accept.”

Commander Spock blinks, “I believe this deserves more consideration.”

“It really doesn’t. I already know,” Amandla says, shaking her head, a small smile on her face, “I have a family here. Imani got me a position at Nairobi University and she and I are going to be given a lab of our own and I can’t leave that or her because no matter how much she bothers me, she’s my best friend and I have T’Tal and I love her and I want to be there for her even if she wouldn’t let me be close to her and I have Taka and - No. I respectfully decline.”

Commander Spock stares at her, his eyes unreadable, “I thought you asked to meet me to discuss this opportunity. You were unaware of this potential offer?”

Amandla shakes her head, her hands beginning to fidget on the table, “No. I had no idea about this at all. I actually uh - I called you here to tell you in person because I thought that’s what Mama would have wanted.” She stops, biting her lips before blurting out, “I’m pregnant. Taka and I have decided to raise the baby together.”

“I see,” Commander Spock replies. 

Amandla brow sinks into a glare at this, “Is that all?”

“You have my congratulations,” Commander Spock says. 

Apparently, this is not what she wants to hear. 

“Why are you doing this?” Amandla asks, her voice just loud enough to draw attention, “I remember begging you to stay with me and you just leaving as if I was nothing and now you want me? I’m twenty six years old. The time you and I should have had together is gone.”

Yet, she knows why. She was old enough to understand. It was the nature of Starfleet. Crew members retired, left, and died. Ship went in and out of commission. He was stagnant. The Enterprise would never stop changing. 

He wanted something to hold onto. 

“You know,” Amandla says, “I thought it was the end of the world when you left but I found a way to be whole again. I think you should do the same.”

He does not respond to her. She picks up the menu again. He came all this way. The least she can do is have a meal with him, no matter how sick she suddenly feels looking at him.


	13. Chapter 13

Voices rises in the hallway outside Dr. Kimathi’s office. Nyota comes to stand in front of the desk, ready to take whatever punishment might be coming to her.

The moment the thought crosses her mind, her jaw tenses. Punishment. As if she is the one who did wrong. They bound her, made her an experimental subject, and played with her mind, but she will be punished.

They will see that she cannot be used like this.

She had every right to do this. Her stance widens and she straightens her posture. Her anger is beginning to boil over again but she can feel something much more pressing too. She can feel it in the hum of her blood rushing through her body and the chill of air moving through her lungs.

In that moment of defiance, she remembers. There had been a familial bond. She feels it once again and she feels it strongly.

A thought strikes her, one that is so intoxicating she feels her pulse begin to pound.

Amandla and Spock are alive.

It seems nearly impossible to know this to be a truth and yet she does without even a shadow of doubt. She can feel them, as if they are right next to her.

Vague memories float through her mind but they are fragmented and useless. She tries to reach for them but her attempts are indirect and confusing.

She experiences sensations through the connection, so many she becomes disoriented and must lean back against the desk. None of them seem relevant or familiar. She hears the slam of one surface crashing into another, the rumble of the earth shaking underneath her, and the rush of figures on a screen. She sees hands covered in thick paint, bright shining lights, and expansive hallways. She feels her legs burning and her chest aching but it is not unpleasant, more the result of playing too much than injury of any kind.

It seems wrong. None of it is her own life. Yet it is not wrong. It cannot be. She can feel Spock and Amandla, beyond everything else, as undeniable as her own heartbeat, but they are not just the three of them anymore. She feels the experiences of others.

No one enter the office. She hears talking in the hallway.

When she touches the table, Nyota is almost certain her hands are covered in burns and callouses but when she glances down at them, they are soft and smooth as always. She blinks and for a moment, she has the feeling that she is posing, light burning down on her even though the office is dark and empty.

The walls. There were pictures on the walls. Dr. Kimathi had hide them away. Nyota moves around the desk to open the drawer where she suddenly knows the pictures were hidden. She sees them, the faces of many whose names she knows without having ever met them.

Six generations. Children with familiar features, faces like those which Nyota had once so cherished.

Then, like a storm, she feels more, her every sense humming as she experiences more and more through her bond with these mysterious others.

She stands, gripping the table tightly, dazed by the sensations. The door opens and she cannot help but feel as if she were the one to enter the room, despite being rooted in place.

The single staff member who enters, stops in the doorway, hand on his hips as he surveys her with a mirthful expression. Nyota recognizes him. It is Bonifacio, the technician who had been the first assigned to help her with memory restoration. He is also Dr. Kimathi’s grandson, as she recalls.

“Can I help you, dear?” Bonifacio asks, as if he is assisting her with one of his exercises and not confronting her after she broke into an office, “And don't tell me you're lost.”

She does not answer, is much too overwhelmed by her own mind to even be confused by his sudden presence.

Something changes in his expression and she shares his thoughts again. He is remembering his own children doing mischievous things. Nyota can see them clearly in her own mind, even though she has never known them before. They are three girls and twin boys, each with the same brown eyes and curly hair.

Nyota can barely breathe. She shakes her head, much to Bonifacio’s confusion, but the facts remain. She had experienced such bonds before and can recognize them easily.

Bonifacio shares a familial bond with her. Dr. Kimathi very likely shares a bond with Nyota as well. They are, somehow, part of Nyota's family.

She goes to sit on the couch, for the stability and to give herself time to think. Bonifacio watches her move, rushes towards her to put an arm around her, as if she may fall.

“Your oldest daughter's name is Khutulun. Her birthday is coming up and she wants a tree swing so you made one in your garage,” Nyota says, “Your two younger girls Börte and Töregene know about it and have kept your secret, which surprise you because they have never been good at keeping secrets and also makes you sad because that means they're growing up and you can't stop that. You're afraid your twins Asad and Luciano or your new baby Sorghaghtani may hurt themselves on the swing but you can't figure out how to prevent that.”

“All true,” Bonifacio says with a smile. He is not surprised by her knowledge and Nyota feels her heart sink at the observation.

“Why do I know that?” Nyota asks, wrapping her arms around herself. She closes her eyes to stop herself from crying and feels Bonifacio put an arm around her as well.

“I can't tell you,” Bonifacio says, “But I think you can tell me.”

She had only been gone for a bit, only for a little bit, Nyota wants to think but can’t, certainly not long enough to have grandchildren and then some.

Tears are flowing freely down Nyota's cheeks. She shakes with the sobs but Bonifacio only holds her tighter. She leans back in his arms because she knows him now, as if she has known him his entire life, and he is a good man.

His touch fills her mind with memories, more memories than she could ever have in one lifetime, and in a split second he confirms what she already suspected.

“You're my descendent,” Nyota says. The moment she says the words, she knows they are true.

“We wondered if you would recognize us,” Bonifacio says, “Especially my grandmother - Dr. Kimathi. She came to me after the first time you spoke to her. She asked me if it I thought it was possible you recognized her.”

“I thought she knew me, more than any file could tell,” Nyota admits. The sensations moving through the bond from the others become stronger, more defined, “They are my descendents too.”

Bonifacio nods, biting his lip, “Yes. I forget they are all there sometimes. It's become background noise to me.”

“They are always like this?” Nyota asks. Her apprehension wavers and she finds herself studying these new relations.

“Not all the time. Mostly, we all can block it if we want. But if anyone is excited, they go off. The other day, Sage -” Bonifacio forcefully closes his mouth, “They are mostly asleep right now, I assume. So, in a word, yes, at night, they are like this but during the day, not so much.”

Nyota pushes carefully through the bonds. In a hot room, she feels as one of her descendents in a hot, crowded room, a warmth forming across Nyota’s body as the girl in question dances. On another planet, she feels another, this one a woman too, as she watches a volcano erupt. Somewhere in the vastness of space, she feels deep, excruciating boredom as one of her male descendents does paperwork.

“This is so weird,” Nyota says.

Bonifacio laughs. Nyota finds herself smiling at the sound, in spite of everything. She is suddenly filled with a deep, easy affection for this man, which only increased in intensity when he says, “You’re telling me. What do I even call you?”

“Nyota,” she says without thinking. Then she has to pause. “What am I to you?

Bonifacio bites his lip before saying, “You are my great-great-grandmother.”

Nyota shakes her head, unable to fathom this idea. It has been a heartbeat ago that she had rocked her baby to sleep.

It hadn’t been though. Nyota had slipped away, for a moment and a few lifetimes, and Amandla had gone out into the world, grown tall, fell in love, and had children and then some. So many moments and memories which Nyota had not known. Nyota’s eyes begin to burn again. Seeing this, Bonifacio reaches for Nyota’s hand.

“I am Mama. Not grandmother, not anything more,” Nyota says, her voice cracking and then falling to pieces, “I don’t know anything else.”

“We love you,” Bonifacio says, squeezing her hand in his, “All of us do. It’s complicated but each and every one of us care about you so much. We will take care of you, Nyota. It will be an honor. You will always have a family.”

Nyota tries to nod but cannot stop shaking. There is one thing she needs right now. She turns to Bonifacio and says, with all the force she can muster, “Take me to them. Take me to Spock and Amandla. We need to be together. We should always have been together.”

“I can’t,” Bonifacio says, his brow sinking deeply as he frowns, “I made promises,” He seems to pause, conflict etched in his eyes as he thinks for several moments before finally concluding both to her and to himself, “I can’t.”

She could scream or cry but she knows this will not work on him. Instead she squares her shoulders, facing him with a stoic expression. A glint of recognition crosses his face, just as she wants and she says, “If it were one of your babies, what would you do to go back to them? Would you take that answer?”

He does not hesitate. “Nothing would stop me from going back to them.”

“Whatever promises you made, are they so valuable to you that you would use them to justify keep apart a family?” Nyota asks. She curses herself but she cannot stop. She has done this before and she can do it again. If she only finds the right words, he will give her what she needs.

“It is for your own good,” he says, his brow set into a glare. The words seems false and awkward on his lips as if they are not his own.

Nyota’s chest aches. Again, someone else guides her fate. Who decided this? Who decided she should be kept here, the pawn in some great unknown scheme, and why is this better for her than being with her family?

Something creeps into Nyota’s awareness, a fact which is foreign to her until that moment. She cannot know its truth but she still shares it with Bonifacio, knowing it is the key to what she wants, “Go and look into the middle drawer on the left.”

Bonifacio watches her, startled by her command but he obeys her. He finds a digital file in the drawer, brings it back to where Nyota is sitting so they can see what is on the device together. There is a single message, written in plain black script:

_Hello Mama._

_It’s me, your Amandla. I don’t know when you will see this but I wanted to make sure I was there for you when your time came again, in whatever way I could be, as you always were for me._

_I want you to know that I love you. I loved you and it gave me strength, I loved you even when it hurt, and I loved you without reservation. I never faltered and no matter what comes between us, I never will._

_Maybe this is the fog of childhood, that allows me to idolize you so but I remember so clearly sometimes and I know it must be true. When I look at my daughter Danae, I wish to know this and be reminded over and over and I want you to know as well. You were everything I could asked for. Nothing can take that away._

_I did not give up willingly. I will always try to find you but the time has come for me to accept that it may not happen in this lifetime. I have made a tenuous peace with that fact._

_I promised you before every voyage that I would take care of Samekh. That promise I have kept, albeit with some difficulty. He is stubborn and so am I, as you may recall. Yet, I found him again and again, I looked after him, and he looked after me. We sustained one another. I created an abundance of life. My legacy is written and I left it for you, to keep you, if you return. I will always be waiting, even if I cannot have you, and I will see you in this life or the next._

_Until we are together again._

_AGU_

The bond is painfully distant and quiet. Nyota knows there had been more to this letter than was written.

Amandla had worried needlessly. Nyota will return to her.

Another thought rises into her awareness. Someone has noticed her in the bond. A strange sensation washes over her, very much like a cool wind on a hot summer night.

“You’re very loyal, aren’t you?” Nyota says, “You didn’t want to help me remember but you did because your grandmother asked you to. To protect me and to protect your family. No one could know that I was alive. You kept that secret as long as you could.”

Bonifacio does not respond. She is tormenting him. For that she is remorseful but she does not hesitate.

“If you can’t tell me, then give me a way to help myself,” Nyota says.

Bonifacio looks at her, his eyes reddening, “We worried you weren’t ready.”

She leans close to him and he sighs, his breath uneven and hot. She puts a hand on his shoulder, “I’ll take whatever is coming.”

Bonifacio pulls away, his eyes on a spot above Nyota’s head. He whispers, barely loud enough to hear, “Forgive me.” Then he puts the PADD away, takes Nytoa’s hand, and they leave the Institute.


	14. Chapter 14

It seems intrusive and yet Danae Tomono Uhura-Nakamura cannot take her eyes off her grandfather as he stands over his daughter’s hospital bed. Commander Spock had been at Amandla’s side for weeks now, a spirit with a haunted face who troubles Danae’s mind. 

Danae clears her throat. She had just returned from a talk with the physicians caring for her mother but the Commander does not acknowledge her. Instead, he mutters, quietly under his breath, as he does passive range of motion exercises on his daughter’s hands, “Adduction, abduction, flexion, extension.”

Amandla remains, unmoving and unaware, as she has been for weeks now. The doctors had reported there was a negligible chance of recovery. Yet, eight times a day, Commander Spock performs exercises to help his daughter retain her mobility. Despite his efforts, Danae can see her mother’s muscles are atrophied. The nurse had told her that Amandla had lost another three pounds in the past week alone. 

The nurses on the floor knew Amandla, having taken care of many of her patients. They were doing their best with Danae’s mother. Still, Danae could barely recognize Amandla. Trapped in the bed, wasting away slowly, her mother was becoming a ghost before her very eyes. 

“I have to run an errand,” Danae says. She takes every opportunity to leave this room, to her own shame. Commander Spock will remain, as he always does, which alleviates some of her hesitation. 

The Commander nods but his attention is not on his granddaughter. Danae moves to leave, pausing in the doorway. When he thinks she is gone, Commander speak again, his tone changed. He continues doing the exercises but now he whispers, “When you are sorrowful look again in your heart,/and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that/which has been your delight.”

Danae walks and then runs. The elevator for the intensive care unit opens quickly and she throws herself into the empty space. She collapses, leaning against the cold metal of the elevator. She is finally alone but quiet was her new enemy. When she closes her burning eyes, she can fully understand her own exhaustion. She feel hollow, like a vessel which had served its purpose and should be discarded. She knows if she tried to lay down, it would be for nothing. It had been days since she had been able to sleep and even then it had been fitful and given her no reprieve. 

She had never been good at sleeping. As a baby, her parents had been driven to the brink by Danae’s inability to establish a night time schedule with any degree of regularity. When she had been a child, she had often stayed awake, making up stories in her head until the sun rose. 

In adulthood, her insomnia had only gotten worse without any identifiable cause. Running had enabled her to achieve a few hours of rest each night and for that she was forever grateful but the stress of races and competition had diminished this too in recent years. 

At the time though, she couldn’t bring herself to mind. She was a happy child, more concerned with observing the world around her than with long nights, and when she’d been older, she been consumed with winning at all costs. Fatigue became background noise.

This was different. This was unending and she could feel herself breaking. 

The door to the elevator opens and she forces herself to mask herself again. Despite her efforts, several people glance over, with more than a few looking sympathetically towards her.

The night before had been particularly difficult, mostly due to anticipation of what she was about to do. Her mother was still alive but the university wanted her office empty for others to use.

Decades of service and they wanted her office empty. 

There is a electronic lock on her mother’s office door which demands a code in order for one to gain access. Danae make three attempts before she can open the door. The first code, 0-2-2-7, her mother's birthday, elicits a harsh beeping sound. Danae jumps, glances behind herself, embarrassed by the ringing of the noise through the laboratory which is full of students and staff. 

There are many eyes on her, which she had felt since she entered the lab. When they all see her looking, they quickly busied themselves with other activities. Danae understands. It was hard to know what to say to her. 

Her mind wanders back to her mother’s hospital bed. Danae tries 0-1-0-6, Commander Spock’s birthday and then, because there were others Amandla cared for with unwanted reservation, 1-7-0-1 quickly after.

This only brings forth the horrible sound again and again. Danae’s teeth clench and she slaps her hand on the door. Her palm throb but she barely notices. In her mind, she hears an unfeeling doctor telling her of her mother’s grim prognosis, her brilliant mother who was lost and could not be found despite all the advances and technology at their disposal. 

A hand reaches around her. As Imani inputs the code, she say quietly to Danae, “It’s 1-0-2-3, your birthday.”

The door clicks open. Danae stands in the doorway, unable to move. This was the place her mother had spent so much of her life, the place she had chosen over family and her own self. 

So Danae stands in the doorway, haunted by an insidious thief she cannot understand. She had not been in this room in years. When she had been small, she had been infatuated with her mother's work, awed by videos of Amandla in surgery, a halo of light around her mother as the illustrious Dr. Uhura-Nakamura mended broken minds. There had to be something special about Danae too, if this was what she came from, even if she were teased for being strange or looked down upon for being shy, of that she had been certain.

After her parent’s divorce, Danae had avoided her mother. Her father tried to lie, say that he and Amandla had simply drifted apart and thought they would be happier separated. 

Danae knew better though. Amandla had never wanted their family. She always been pulled away from them, towards another life, an haunted existence which Danae could never understand her mother’s preference for. 

“Why was she so obsessed with it?” Danae asks. She bites her lip but her thoughts remain. What had gone through her mother's mind all those long hours she had spent here? What meaning had been given to this place that it was more to Amandla than anything else?

“With what?” Imani asks, even though Danae has a sneaking suspicion Imani already knows what she is talking about. Danae’s aunt is prone to asking leading questions.

“The ITA virus,” Danae says, “It was everything to her.”

The very name is heavy in her tongue. It was more than a simple microorganism. It was the means by which her mother had discovered how to regenerate neural tissue. It had been the way her mother had made a name for herself, both inside the scientific community and across the universe. And most importantly, perhaps, it was a mechanism for her mother to achieve a goal few knew or understood.

Imani grinds her teeth for a moment and then shrugs, says, “I’m not sure.”

Danae sets her teeth but says nothing. Imani had been her mother’s best friend and confidant for decades. Yet, she allows this, knows there is more to be known if she merely asks the right questions. 

“That name was my idea you know. Mama wanted to call the virus Alpha something but I begged her to consider my idea and name it after the three of you,” Danae adds, “Lonely children are always enamoured with the idea of best friends. I thought you were as close as people could be, chasing your dreams together.”

“It was all we could think of for a long time and then it wasn't,” Imani says. She takes a deep breath, her eyes staring at nothing. 

Was. Danae shudders but what her aunt had said was the truth. Danae was her mother’s next of kin and had been allowed to review her mother’s medical record. 

Her mother had collapsed in the pre-op room, just before a surgery. Her team was on hand and resuscitation efforts had quickly been implemented but Amandla had still slipped away. 

‘A massive cerebral aneurysm,’ Danae had heard the nurse report to another, just that morning, ‘Very difficult to repair. Hard to understand why the doctor didn’t recognize the symptoms. Brain dead.’

That morning, the doctors, her mother’s own colleagues, recommended Danae allow the removal of the life supporting measures. 

“Why didn’t she come to me?” Danae asks. She gestures towards the bedding which had been hidden behind the couch and the trashcan full of takeout containers. “This place completely consumed her but I would have done anything to - ” 

Danae stops herself because there's no way to tell what she would have done.

Imani shakes her head, “There was nothing we could do. None of this is our fault.”

“Why did she lock herself away her and - ” Danae says.

Imani touch Danae’s hand, her voice changed as she says, “She wanted to go home, Danae. Sometimes that isn’t a place. For your mother, it was a time and a feeling. It was in the past but she thought she could have it again.”

“She wasn’t happy here right?” Danae says. Encouraged by Imani’s slight nod, Danae adds, “I would have helped her. She only had to tell me she needed me. That’s all she had to do. I only ever wanted her to want me.”

“She loved you,” Imani says, “It may have not seemed like she did at time but she did. It was simply hard for her. She carried so much guilt.”

“And I wasn’t enough, was I?” Danae says. She had the thought many times but had never given it voice before. Yet in that moment, standing in the shadow of her mother’s hidden world, she cannot conceal it. “I was never enough for her.”

Imani pulls Danae into her arms, her bare skin brushing against her niece’s. Danae feels her own emotions echoing between the temporary bond. Imani had experienced Danae’s very same sentiment. 

“Go home and rest,” Imani says, stroking Danae’s hair, “I can clear out the office.”

Danae forces herself to pull away, shaking her head, “This is something I need to do.” She holds her breath and steps through the doorway. As she looked around, she felt both a need to preserve everything in it’s place, for what it was, and a deep desire to tear apart the room, for what it had done. 

“I’m here if you need me,” Imani says, “I’ll be right outside the door. Just call and I will come running.”

Danae nods. There are several PADDs stacked on the desk and she aimlessly pushing them around on the table because it is the least threatening thing to do. She glances at them, sees that they are all old newspaper articles and then makes the mistake of reading a few titles. 

They are all articles regarding the laws which had just been enacted to restrict the practice of her mother’s infamous procedure. There are nearly twenty of them on the table, another sign of her mother’s obessesion. 

“Auntie?” Danae asks. She can still hear Imani behind her, knows the woman wouldn’t leave so quickly, “What do children owe their parents?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Imani replies. Then she quietly leaves, shutting the door behind her.

Danae turns her head to the left but all she could see was her mother, dead but so alive. She turned to the right but all she could hear was hopelessness. 

The first question Danae had had for the doctors was whether her mother’s procedure could be used to save Amandla herself. Surely the intervention which repaired damaged neural tissue should benefit it’s own inventor. 

It could not though. There were laws in place now. The procedure could not be performed without expressed consent due to the perceived high risk. Danae had heard stories about lawyers being flooded with business, potential patients who wanted to have access to Amandla’s surgery if the unthinkable should happen and wanted to make their wishes known. 

But Danae’s mother had not been one of them. There was no expressed consent and the doctors could not proceed without it. 

It stirs again. The anger, black and bitter and all-consuming. Danae rushed towards the couch, flinging the bedding out of sight before turning her attention to the PADDs, which she shoves off the desk and onto the floor. Then, just as quickly as it had come, it goes. Danae falls to the floor.

In the void which the anger had left, the guilt is all that remains. There should be a purpose to this suffering. Pain should be met with equal joy. It was only fair. It should be fair. 

“I’m sorry, Mama,” Danae says. No one hears her, of course, and that only makes Danae feel worse. 

Finally, she comes to her senses and leans to pick up the PADDs she had thrown on the floor. Her eye is caught when she notices that one is still, inexplicably, turned on. 

It is not a news article, which further draws her attention. It is a document which her mother had submitted to the ethics board. Danae skims it and then yells for Imani, who comes running into the room. 

Her aunt glances at the broken electronics on the floor and the bedding shoved behind the couch but says nothing, choosing instead to go to help Danae to her feet. 

“Are you hurt?” Imani asks.

“My mother, she was going to bring my grandmother back?” Danae asks. She holds up the document which is authorizing the surgical intervention for Nyota Uhura, “This is from her last sanctioned experimental procedure?”

“Yes,” Imani says, “Are you - ”

“It was never completed though,” Danae says, “That means my mother had permission for one last sanctioned experimental procedure with the old rules regarding consent. Permission would only have to be implied, based on presumed belief in the patient’s desire to receive life sustaining measures. Or consent could be given by next of kin. It’s in all these articles, the legal logistics. Look for yourself. I know it is. Can the experimental subject be changed?”

Imani is shaking her head and Danae’s heart sinks but she doesn’t accept it, cannot accept it when it is so easily within reach.

“It’s not simple like that Danae. We have no proof, she would condone the procedure for herself - ”

“It can be! The subject has to remain anonymous, don’t they? We could change it. I know my mother trained other surgeons. Her old team would do it. She was their family too. You’re in charge of this stuff, right? No one would know about the switch but you and I.” Danae says, her words tumbling out of her, “Please do this for me. I know you can.”

“That’s not - ”

“Didn’t you love her?” Danae snaps. Her face is wet too and she realizes she is crying as well. She had not cried, not when she had been called and told what happened, not when the doctors had spoken to her. Not until now. 

There was possibility in the unknown, she realizes. No matter what anyone said, as long as her mother was alive, things could change. If Amandla died though, it was over. If Danae failed then, it was unchangeable. The very thought is almost too much. 

Imani’s eyes soften, “You know I did. You know I would do anything for her. She was my family. If anyone were to find out that we did this, I fear what that might mean for you.”

“I will take any punishment,” Danae says. Then she understands what Imani means. 

This is her mother’s last chance to resurrect Nyota Uhura. If Danae does this, her mother’s life work, the reason which drove her to the brink for the past decades of her life would be for nothing.

“There are things no one should endure,” Imani says, “Can you live with what you would know?”

Danae considers the question. She thinks about what she had seen and heard and experienced in the past days. She knows the alternative.

“I have to,” Danae says. 

Imani nods. She appears relieved at Danae’s answer but there is still a deep tension in her body, “Go back to your mother’s room. Pretend like nothing happened here. I will have Dr. Nguyen make the change. If it is discovered, I don’t want you to be connected in anyway. We will have to wait but I will make sure this happens.”

Danae nods, unnerved by her aunt. In spite of everything, she feels her heart pounding. What if they are caught? What would she do if they were caught? The thought runs through her head as she leaves. 

Yet, her eyes are still red from crying and no one looks at her. No one will question why the office remains uncleaned. No one sees deception in anything she does as she goes back to her mother. There is nothing to give away what they are about to do.

Everything will be fine, Danae thinks. 

Back in her mother’s hospital room, Commander Spock is cleaning Amandla’s face. On the couch, T’Tal sits, watching his process. Danae looks at the floor as she approaches. Without thinking, she reaches out to perform range of motion exercises on her mother’s hand. 

Commander Spock stops, watching Danae’s movements. Danae knows why. She had not been subtle in her disdain when she had seen his routine. At the time, she had thought it pointless. 

He knows something has changed, she realizes. She turns and sees T’Tal watching too. Then, in a panic, she finds herself confessing. 

There must be a part of him which knows. He must know that his daughter was riddled with survivor’s guilt from having lived after the plague which had taken her mother and sixty seven of her crew mates, that is had driven Amandla to study the microorganism which had caused the disease in the first place. 

The moment she tells him, Danae feels infinitely worse. She knows she is now forcing Commander Spock to either allow the procedure to continue or stop it. He is being made to choose his wife or his daughter. 

All he does is touch Danae’s face. Their eyes meet and his thought is so singular and focused, Danae cannot look away. She barely hears T’Tal lean forward, desperate for his response.

He knows that Danae needs her mother. 

They wait together. It is a week before they receive confirmation, quietly, that Dr. Nguyen has agreed to perform the procedure. Another month to prepare and then another six weeks before Amandla has recovered. 

But Amandla returns to them. Danae is there when her mother opens her eyes. There to hear Commander Spock promise he will never leave his daughter again. There to see Imani cry tears of joy and see T’Tal discretely press two of Amandla’s fingers with her own. There to know that her mother’s first instinct is to search for Danae’s face among those around Amandla’s bed in the hospital room. It is a second chance, for all of them. 

Danae worries for weeks and months that someone will find out what they have done but no one ever does. She has no regrets. Yet the sadness and anger disappears but not the guilt. 

It festers within her. She tries to build a life for herself and her mother that will outweigh what she has done. She marries a boy who makes her mother smile with her eyes. She has children whom the Commander tells stories and Amandla teaches anatomy to. Their family grows throughout the years, with Danae’s daughters and sons who have Amandla’s eyes and Commander Spock’s height and other features Danae cannot recognize.

Still, it remains. She comes to understand her family's ability to create ghosts. It haunts her. 

.  
.  
.

Thandiewe Uhura Kimathi squints in the sunlight. It is unlikely that the forest outside her grandmother’s home has any monsters in it but it is still fun to pretend as though every noise is a chimera hunting for her. 

Or perhaps a sphinx. Thandie had just finished a book on Greek myths, which had inspired her to find more information on riddles. She would welcome such a challenge, had even been trying to come up with a few mental tricks for the monster in question. 

Thandie hums, stretching out as if she were part lion too before reaching for a higher branch. No, she thinks, she would not be the victim of the sphinx. She could be a sphinx herself. She was smart enough for it, wasn’t she? Speaking to an unseen beings, a light purr in her tone, she poses the questions, “What is the creature that walks on four legs in the morning, two legs at noon and three in the evening?”

Underneath her, something cracks. She clings to the tree but the world begins to fall away. Panic rises quickly in Thandie’s throat but it is all for naught. Strong arms pluck her from out of the air. 

Thandie twisted around to see her rescuer: her grandmother Amandla, “You got me, bibi.”

Amandla smiles. She sets her granddaughter so that the young girl is sitting upon Amandla’s shoulders, before saying, “I got you, mpenzi.”

“But I cannot spare you even if you are my bibi, you know,” Thandie says, “Tell me your answer.”

“What were you pretending to be now?” Amandla asks. She grips Thandie’s ankles. Thandie must have had another growth spurt; her feet now dangle almost to the line of Amandla’s waist, “A griffin?”

“A sphinx,” Thandie says, rolling her eyes. They begin walking back towards the house. It is nearly lunch time and Thandie, who is hungry as always, doesn't protest, “Griffins are stupid. Am I really to be expected to believe such creatures could fly? They would be far too heavy.”

“It certainly would require a lapse in judgement,” Amandla says, turning her head so she can see Thandie’s somber expression. She bites her cheek to stop herself from smiling and says, “Tell me again about what a sphinx does.”

“They have the body of lions and the heads of humans and in Greek mythology they devour all travelers who cannot answer their riddles,” Thandie says. She tightens her jaw and straightens herself so that she is as tall as possible, still lost in her story.

“They sound like jerks,” Amandla says.

“Most creatures in myths are,” Thandie replies, “I think it’s so that you wouldn’t miss them when they’ve been killed by the hero.”

“What were the travelers doing that made them deserve to be devoured?” Amandla continues.

“I don’t know. The ambiguity allows for a moral dichotomy where the hero is righteous and the beasts are malicious,” Thandie says, “Remember you are mortal and answer my question: What is the creature that walks on four legs in the morning, two legs at noon and three in the evening?”

“A stool?” Amandla asks. Thandie looks absolutely horrified by this answer so Amandla quickly adds, “Like it was brand new in the morning and it broke and someone tried to fix it but gave up quickly?”

“Bibi,” Thandie says, “Stools are never alive.”

Amandla stops on the outer edge of the forest which surrounds her home, considering the statement. Finally she says, “Neither were lion-human hybrids.”

“You would have been devoured for sure,” Thandie says, “Any myth about you would be very short.”

“I’ve read those myths,” Amandla says, “I’m fine with a short story.”

They are near Amandla’s home now. Even from several yards away from the front door, they can both hear the twins Ama and Amadi screaming. Poor Samekh Spock had been tasked with caring for them. He had spent most of the morning trying to coax them off of the roof.

Danae and Adil, Thandie’s parents, had went to the store for some groceries. They had been gone for nearly four hours. Thandie didn't blame them. All the twins did was break things and make too much noise. Uncle Jim thought their rambunctious natures indicated bravery and curiosity, traits he felt destined them for very successful careers in Starfleet. For Thandie, they just proved that the horrible characters and monsters in her myths weren't so bad and no one should ever suggest to her parents that she was too young for such stories, thank you very much.

T’Tal, her grandmother’s wife, appears on the porch to greet them, holding Sizwe, her thumb gently stroking Thandie’s baby brother’s chubby thigh. Sizwe is an especially enormous baby, more so in T’Tal's tiny arms, ‘a gentle giant’, their father called him. He was Thandie’s - and T’Tal's - favorite.

“Thandie,” T’Tal says. She does not look at the girl but instead focuses on Amandla, who stops by the entrance, returning the gaze, “Could you please go and get your great-grandfather, brother, and sister? It is time for our afternoon meal.”

“Of course, ko'mekh-il,” Thandie says. Amandla puts her down. Thandie makes a face at Sizwe as she passes and he gives her a toothless grin. 

There is something in T’Tal’s quiet tone and blank expression that makes Thandie pause, in the hallway next to the entryway, hidden from view but still close enough to hear. 

“The gifts have arrived for you,” Thandie hears T’Tal says to Amandla, “I made arrangements for the others and left one in your study as you prefer.”

Amandla sighs, “I was expecting it. Thank you.”

“You should discard them all,” T’Tal says.

“No,” Amandla says, “The least I can do is accept the gift.”

Thandie hears Amandla approaching her hiding spot and sprints towards the living room, the epicenter of her twin sibling’s mayhem. Thandie could swear her mother and father had only packed a handful of toys for all four of the children yet the floor is covered in dolls, blocks, and computer parts. Amongst everything, Samekh Spock is sprawled. Ama is sitting on his chest, making knots of his pristine bangs, while at Spock’s feet, their brother Amadi is drawing on the wooden floor with crayons.

His breathing is slow, much like it is when he is meditating or at rest, but Thandie cannot be certain Samekh Spock isn’t playing dead.

“It’s time for lunch,” Thandie announces loudly.

The twins both begins babbling at her but Thandie ignores them. Everyone thought the twins spoke to each other and to the world in a very unique language only the two of them understood but really, they were speaking in very bad Vulcan. 

Spock opens his eyes and begins to stand slowly. He, in an act of overwhelming hopefulness, holds out a finger for each of the twins to take hold of and they immediately race off in different directions. Ama begins climbing a bookshelf and Amadi makes a beeline for the window, which appears to be, unfortunately, unlocked. 

Thandie turns to leave. She has enough of this nonsense at home. She calls over her shoulder, “Next time you, bibi, and ko'mekh-il draw straws over who takes care of them, I suggest cheating. My mother likes to mark the short straw with a sticker or cut a little bit off the top.”

The kitchen is relatively close to the living room but Thandie finds herself lingering in the hallway. She can see Sizwe is settled in a high chair while T’Tal sets the table but Amandla is nowhere to be found.

Without a second thought, she turns and rushes up the stairs. Her grandmother’s study is on the third floor of the house. It is August, and the space is still well-light from the noon sun which filters down from the large window on the ceiling. Sometimes, Amandla lets Thandie play with one of her surgical simulations on a PADD or look through the impressive collection of antiques which Spock has brought back from his travels throughout the universe. 

Today though, Thandie can only see her grandmother, sitting at her large desk, staring at a strange planet on the wooden surface before her. The plants have purple stems, black thorns, and green buds. Placed next to each plant, is a message board on a stick with writing on it that Thandie cannot understand. 

“What is that?” Thandie asks. 

Amandla nods, shaken from her stupor. She plucks the message board up and shows it to Thandie, who approaches with caution, “It is a poem of gratitude. These are blossoms from a planet called Janus. On some markets, they are worth almost two million credits each.”

Thandie leans forward to sniff the buds, which have a deep, savory smell. The plants seem to shake as if they are nervous at her attention, “Why do we have them?”

“I receive exactly sixty eight of them, every year on this date,” Amandla says, “They're a very elaborate way of saying thank you for past deeds. I usually sell all but one and give the money to charity.”

“That’s a strange tradition,” Thandie asks, “What do the cards say?”

“It says, ‘To the one survivor, all of our gratitude.’” Amandla points to the unfamiliar markings on the message board, “Several decades ago, when I was sick with a virus, some scientists on Vulcan isolated some immunoglobulins in my blood and replicated them. That became the basis for a cure which saved a race of aliens on Janus.”

“Wow,” Thandie says, “And all they give you are these crappy flowers?”

“Language, Thandie. What would your parents say?” Amandla says, grinning before she can stop herself, “Between you and I though, they were part of the reason I was sick in the first place. They could have named a city after me or something.”

Thandie reaches out to touch one of the plants. The buds are soft and yielding, like overripe fruit. Thandie makes a face, glancing at her grandmother out of the corner of her eye to see what bibi thinks of these strange things. Amandla has that distant, empty look in her eyes and Thandie’s throat tightens at the sight. To bring Amandla back, Thandie asks, “What do they mean by, ‘the one survivor?’ And why sixty eight plants? It’s such a specific number. Surely if they think you saved their population, there should be more than sixty eight?”

The door to the office opens before Amandla can respond. Danae enters, Ama in one arm and Amadi in the other. Both twins are squirming but Danae is used to this and her grip is iron. Turning to avoid two sets of sticky hands, which are hell bent on pulling her hair, Danae smiles and says, “I brought back wali wa nazi from that place you like in town, Mama. That’s your favorite right?”

Thandie cannot help but notice that her mother’s smile seems fake. If Danae were truly smiling, one could see dimples on her cheeks and the tops of her teeth. Neither feature is present now. 

“You didn’t need to go through all that trouble,” Amandla says. She smiles too and the expression appears just as false as that of Danae’s. 

Danae is always doing favors for Amandla. Last week, she had stopped by after work and cleaned the entirety of the home which Amandla, Spock, and T’Tal shared. Just the night before Danae had stayed up for hours, preparing and freezing food, for Amandla to have the next week after her long days at work. None of this had been tasks which Danae had been asked to do and yet she had done them and often did. 

And Amandla was grateful but always insisted Danae not do so much for them. It was an endless dance. Danae going too far with her favors and Amandla accepting them with reluctance. 

“It was no trouble at all,” Danae says, “Come eat while the food is still hot.”

Thandie helps Amandla to her feet. As much as she appreciates privacy - and she does, with her destructive twin siblings and a baby brother who is much too curious for his own good - Thandie wishes she could feel something through the familial bond she shared with Amandla. For many years, she had simply thought she was too human to feel anything through the link which her small Vulcan heritage allowed her. Yet even when they held hands or embraced, times when she could feel her mother or father or T’Tal’s thoughts as clearly as her own, she could not feel her grandmother’s nor Samekh Spock’s thoughts. 

Her grandmother glances at her but Amandla’s insincere smile does not fade and Thandie allows her questions to fade. Thandie blurts, “I would never be a monster, you know.”

Amandla’s smile softens into something more natural, “I know, mpenzi.”

Danae turns too, to give Thandie an affectionate look. 

“I think the purpose of myths are that we should choose to try and embody morality and the spirit of the stories, but not the letter,” Thandie continues, “I think that they want to show us one can be good a person, be brave, trustworthy, kind. It’s just that we often choose not to.”

“I think that’s what they mean to teach us too,” Amandla says, “That’s why I loved them when I was your age.”

Danae leads them down to the kitchen. Ama is poking Amadi by the time they reach the staircase and Thandie can barely think around the noise but when Amandla leans down and speaks to her, Thandie can hear every word that is said to her. 

“Everyone can be good, you know that? Everyone is capable of being the very best of what humanity has to offer,” Amandla says, her voice hush and barely audible over Amadi’s protests, “It’s always a choice though. No one is perfect and everyone makes mistakes but promise me, you’ll try to be good, even when the twins are being terrible and your parents are giving your siblings all their attention.”

“Of course,” Thandie says without a second thought. She glances at her mother, struggling to separate the two children in her arms and suddenly guilt flashes across Danae’s face. 

“You will? You will be nice to people even when they don’t deserve it? You will be brave even when it is not easy? You will never lie to me or anyone else?”

Thandie sees Danae look away from them as Amandla says this last bit. It is years before Thandie truly understands - and by then it more than an omission and has become a secret - but at the time, she cares only that Amandla seems pleased - truly pleased - when Thandie replies, “I will, bibi. I will be good.”

.  
.  
.

“How’s mamae?” Graciana Yadira Silva Kimathi asks. She presses the communicator to her ear with her shoulder before slipping into a pair of large surgical scrubs. They were two sizes bigger than what she normally wore but she had no desire to have anything form fitting today. She wasn’t supposed to be at work, had only been called into because her colleague Dr. Mwangi had broken her hand the night before - of all things - playing a game of cards, if what staffing was reporting could be believed, “What’s she doing right now?”

“La Juiz just finished a twenty-page opinion piece on a recent supreme court finding. Now she and bibi are making biscoito de polvilho,” Francisca, Graciana’s older sister says, “You didn’t honestly think the anniversary of her husband’s death would hinder the Honorable Thandiewe Silva, did you Gia?”

“You know how she is Franca. She’ll pretend to be just fine and then you’ll find her crying in her bedroom,” Graciana says. She was late that morning due to the sudden change in schedule which Dr. Mwangi’s injury created. All the benches are covered in the personal items of the surgical staff and Granciana has to balance on one foot to fold her scrub bottoms up to a suitable length and tie her shoes. 

“I do remember, Gia. I was much older than you were when Pai died. I know how depressed she can get and I’m telling you, she’s fine,” Francisca says, “I’m being extra nice to her. Bonifacio is bringing the kids later and I’m sure she’ll love that. And most importantly, bibi is here. She will get through this day, I promise. Go and focus on your work and don’t worry about her. She’s being well-cared for.”

All of that was true. Not only was their mother Thandie was happiest when her children and grandchildren were about, the presence of their great-grandmother Amandla in the house brought a certain calm to everyone. 

Their mother had loved their father Cisco deeply and his death, thirty eight years prior, had nearly destroyed her. Amandla had helped raise Graciana, Francisca, and Bonifacio. Their great-great grandfather Spock and their great-grandmother T’Tal had done their part too but no one could reach Thandie in those dark times quite like Amandla. The matriarch of their family had a manner about her, when others were in pain, that Graciana could only assume experience and wisdom could bring. 

“Tell her I love her,” Graciana says, “And that I wish I was there. And tell our kids to call her. I reminded them twice but you know how they can be.”

“Your little girl already did call. mamae smiled the whole time. I’m sure mine will call too when they finally wake up.” Franscisca says. 

Graciana stumbles as she tries to put shoe covers on but does not fall. She really does wish she were home. She would have liked to talk to the kids. After Francisca’s second divorce, Graciana and her sister had raised their children together. The five of them had been close and Graciana missed their little family. Her daughter Xylia and her sister’s two children Sage and Malachite lived in the lunar colonies, as part of a university exchange program which sought to facilitate the sharing of artistic ideas and support the fledgling colonies’ sudden renaissance. 

“Tell Cio and Chuluuny and - fuck!” Graciana says as the communicator slips out of her grasp and onto the floor. 

Graciana bends to pick it up. Her call had been dropped. On the home screen, there were multiple notifications. She had eighteen messages, all of them telling her she was needed for emergency surgery in OR 16.

The hallway outside the locker room was already in chaos. Inside OR 16, it was nearing the apocalypse. Graciana hated emergency surgeries. Barring an act of fate, they could almost always be avoided. When they weren’t, she could always be certain someone had waited too long even when the patient was showing signs of crashing or communication had fallen apart between two staff members or hundred of scenarios which were mere lapses in good judgement.

“Bashara, what in fresh hell is this?” Graciana yelled over the mayhem of techs haphazardly preparing the sterile field and engineers readying the equipment as quickly as they could. 

Her first assistant looks up from his position at the head of the bed. He doesn’t answer. With one hand maintaining cricoid pressure on the unconscious patient so that the anesthesiologist can intubate, he gestures for someone to help Graciana scrub in. 

“What is happening?” Graciana asks again, as she is being prepped by a young tech with shaking hands. 

“Two of the cryogenic tubes went down in No Man's Land. Patient has a big bad brain bleed. ICP is 31,” Bashara says when the airway is secured, “No consent form but Dr. Otieno has already assessed and given consent for an emergency operation. He wants you to second his opinion so we can proceed with implied consent.”

Graciana glances at the monitors. The patient’s blood pressure was high and heart rate was low. Just before the tube had gone in, she had noticed irregular breathing. All classical signs of Cushings triad, which indicated impending or occurring brain herniation. 

“Of course I’ll second. This should have been done ten minutes ago,” Graciana says. 

There is still a swell of people around her, rushing to complete their tasks so that they can begin but she barely notices them. She has seen this set of circumstances a dozen times before. She knows exactly what must be done, is more than ready to rise to the occasion. 

“Dr. Otieno said the armor gloves are necessary. The patient has a neurological virus which is highly pathogenic,” Bashara adds, as if discussing the weather.

“Outstanding,” Graciana mutters. She holds up her hands so that protective gloves made of a chainmail-like material can be slipped on before two sets of sterile gloves.

Bashara runs the time-out, “This is Stella Aditi. Medical record number is 47892336893. And - ” He squints at the PADD, eyebrows furrowed, “There’s no birthdate?”

“Does the medical record number match?” Graciana asks. 

A tech looks at the wristband on the patient’s arm, which is badly wrinkled. She looks up at Graciana and nods.

Graciana pauses. No Man's Land or the hospice room as it is known officially, is the area where they keep patients who require the most extensive surgeries, which require a higher than average level of planning and care. Operations on the patients in No Man's Land happen rarely. Most patients are extremely difficult cases and have been in the hospice room for decades. It is not unusual for patients to come from off planet, where resources might be scarce and almost all patients have conditions which are beyond help. This is not the first case of shoddy documentation. 

But no consent form? No birth date on the ID band?

“Let’s proceed,” Graciana says, “As long as this is the right patient and the right procedure, I’m satisfied.”

Bashara nods too, “Decompressive craniectomy with possible Lazarus procedure?”

Graciana exhales a breath she did not realize she had been holding, “Yes.”

There is a nagging feeling on the edge of Graciana’s conscience. Maybe it's the emergent nature of the procedure or the overriding of consent which is necessary in this case. Either way, she is needed and Graciana pushes away the worries, knowing they will only impede what she is trying to do.

The patient is quickly prepped and open. Blood and other fluid gushes from the skull. The brain is a strange color, a bit too dark and too firm but herniation has not yet occurred. Once the cerebral swelling is under control, she is able to see that there is extensive underlying neural damage, which can't be from the brain bleed, and Graciana is soon lost in the work, in her own questions.

Fifteen hours later, she is still not finished, but Dr. Iminathi is there, interrupting her flow with her incessant rambling about “state regulations” which prohibit Graciana from working any longer. Normally Graciana would insist on finishing, which was only reasonable since she knew the case best, but the only thing left is the closing and Dr. Iminathi is competent. 

Only fifteen hours and thirteen minutes. She must tell her great-grandmother Amandla. The older woman will be impressed how fast her procedure can be completed now. 

It is only 21:49 so she takes a quick shower and heads to her mother’s house. The lights are on and from the porch, Graciana can hear several different voices. The experience causes a tightness in her chest. She bursts into the house, calling out, “Lia? Sagie? Mal?”

There is the thunder of feet rushing down the stairs and then they, her wonderful daughter, her perfect niece, and her marvelous nephew, are in her arms again. Graciana’s cheeks ache from smiling. She hadn’t realized just how much she had missed them. 

“What are you doing here? Franca didn't tell me you were coming or I would have been here sooner,” Graciana says, her words muffled by Malachite’s shoulder. 

“It's a surprise,” Sage says, “We have an audition tomorrow and got some free time beforehand.”

“It’s for the National Ballet Company. They want Sagie and Mal to choreograph something and I get to do the music. If all goes well, of course,” Xylia adds.

“It will. You will all be excellent,” Graciana says.

“That's what bibi said too but they wouldn't believe her,” Francisca says, appearing in the doorway to the living room, “Talk to the kids, Gia. Give them some of your confidence.”

“Take it,” Graciana says, kissing Xylia, and then Sage and Malachite too, “Take all my confidence and show everyone how wonderful you are.”

“Thanks, auntie. . . Can we go to the city tonight? There's a concert. It starts in like fifteen minutes,” Malachite bursts just as Graciana’s lips leave his cheek. His sister and cousin glare at him and he withers under their gaze.

“Of course,” Graciana says after glancing at Francisca, who nods slightly, “Have fun. And good luck tomorrow, if I don't see you.”

The trio begin to rush about, grabbing wallets and coats. Graciana had hoped they would stay for a bit and talk and perhaps eat together but she forces herself to smile as they leave.

“Look out for each other. If you need any contraceptives, I gave some to Sage,” Francisca says.

Sage gives her brother and cousin a knowing look, patting a pocket on her bag. Malachite shudders. Xylia rolls her eyes, “Thanks, but I have my own. Would be a good mood killer though.”

“No, it wouldn't. I'm cool,” Sage snaps. It is false protest at its finest.

“No, you're not,” Xylia says, checking herself in the mirror by the door.

“Mal, back me up. I wouldn't kill any moods right?” Sage says.

“Well, there was that time during carnival -” Malachite says.

“Hah!” Xylia says.

Sage slaps playfully at Xylia, who ducks, which makes the strike land on Malachite. The argument continues in earnest. The door slams behind them, leaving a deep silence. Francisca turns to her sister and asks, “So what do you want to do now?”

“Have another baby,” Graciana says.

“Cio and Chuy brought their children. Spend an hour with them and you'll be cured of that desire,” Francisca says, “I see that look. I'm too old to raise another baby so don't get any ideas.”

“Where is everyone else?” Graciana asks.

“Bonifacio and Chuluuny and the kids have been asleep since 7:30. Samekh was babysitting earlier so I assume he's comatose as well. I think mamae and bibi are in the den.”

“And our grandmother?”

“Grandma hasn't been seen or heard from today,” Francisca says, “She's probably with T’Tal.”

Neither of them are surprised. Their grandmother Danae is not one for emotionally draining days. It was not because she lacked feelings. Instead, she was easily broken. Graciana remembers after her father's death, how Danae had sobbed for days and then been in a fugue for nearly a week after. It was understandable - and a relief if Graciana were being totally truthful - that Danae would not be there. It was not unusual, for T’Tal and Danae to go off on their own, on days like these.

“I made tea,” Francisca says, “Let's go get it from the kitchen and then we can go sit with mamae and bibi. Spend some time with them, unlike our ungrateful little brats.”

“I wish I was in my twenties again,” Graciana muses, “It's only 10:30 but I would rather die than go out.” 

“I will be asleep in fifteen minutes, no question,” Francisca says. She shakes her head, clearly disappointed in herself and turns to go to the kitchen. 

They make a tray of black tea, their mother's favorite, and pile sugar and cream on as well to please their bibi, before moving into the den. Francisca is not the best cook and Graciana is so focused on balancing the tray with the pot of tea, which is scalding, of course, that she nearly runs into her sister's back when the other woman stops abruptly in the doorway to the den. 

“What is it?” Graciana asks, contorting so that the boiling water wouldn't burn them both.

Francisca turns, a finger over her lips, her eyes gesturing towards the den. Inside, Amandla is sprawled across one couch, while Thandiewe is curled up in an armchair.

“Did they really fall asleep holding hands?” Francisca whispers, rolling her eyes. 

“The true soul mates of the family, right here,” Graciana adds, she goes to the cabinet by the wall, and pulls out two blankets, throwing one to her sister. She leans close, as always a conspirator with Francisca, “She and bibi must have been having one of their talks.”

“You mean,” Francisca tucks a throw over their mother before standing straighter, a somber look on her face, becoming a poor mimic for Amandla, “We are nothing but a pile of dust and fear,’ type deal?”

“Or, ‘We are merely energy until we touch the universe,’ or something like that?” Graciana says, fighting back a laugh. In spite of her gentle teasing, she leans down to stroke Amandla’s hair. Out of the corner of her eye, she see Francisca going to kiss their mother's forehead. They both move quietly from the room, switching off the light as they go.

“Franca,” Graciana says. When her sister turns to look at her, she says, flippantly, “Since the kids aren't here and everyone is asleep, why drink tea? There's probably wine - ”

“In the the cabinet over the sink,” Francisca adds quickly. Then she forces herself to calm and says “Since it's just the two of us, we could conceivably be in our pajamas right now too, yes?”

“I'll put on Passion in Venice,” Graciana blurts out, “I think we were only few minutes in last time.”

“Forget that. I could care less about the plot. Let's just fast forward to the good scenes,” Graciana says, 

“Perfect,” Francisca says. 

They go to their separate tasks. From the living room, Graciana can hear Francisca pulling out the wine they hide for family get-togethers. Both sisters adore their grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, and nephews, but too many personalities can be overwhelming.

As she curses and complains over the ancient holovid player, Graciana feels a strange tingling in her neck, which spreads across her cheeks and forehead. Immediately, she assumes it is a stroke until, just as soon as it appears, it is gone. 

“Franca?” Graciana calls.

Her sister appears in the door, two full wine glasses in hand. There is no indication that she too felt the sensation.

“What is it?” Francisca asks.

“Nothing. Goosebumps,” Graciana says.

“In anticipation of Monaco Devligne’s ass?” Francisca asks.

“Nothing but,” Graciana says. She grins and forces the experience from her mind.

The sisters sit down on the couch. The holo is ready and the wine is waiting but neither move to indulge. Finally, Francisca speaks,

“Francisco Federico Santos Silva,” Graciana says. She had been eleven years old when their father had died. She can remember his smile and how safe she had felt in his arms.

“He was the perfect father to us,” Francisca says, “Remember how he used to let me paint his face? Or when he learned organic chemistry to help you with your high school science project?”

Graciana closes her eyes, remembers her father kissing Bonifacio the day their brother was born, their father carrying his girls on his shoulders in their first day of school, and their mother smiling with her eyes at their father and calling him her special nickname. 

“Cisco,” Franscisca says, obviously aware of her sister's thoughts, “I hope he knew we loved him.”

“He had to,” Graciana says, more to herself. She tucks herself into her sister. Franscisca puts an arms around Graciana, who simply says again, “He had to.”

He had only been forty years old, only a year older than Bonifacio was now. There were so many things they both wish their father had been able to do. He should have seen Bonifacio grow up. He should have met his grandchildren. He and mamae should have had a long, happy life together. 

Mercifully, Graciana’s communicator goes off and their thoughts are interrupted. She glances at the screen. It's the hospital but she is not on call. Still, the screen is flashing red, indicating the caller marked the message as emergent. 

Graciana untangled herself from Francisca and answers with annoyance in her tone which is impossible to hold back, “Hello?”

She is prepared for a frantic nurse calling in about one of her patients or another doctor needing help with a case. She does not expect her grandmother’s voice.

“Graciana? It's avo. Where are you right now?” Danae says, a frantic edge to her voice.

Danae works at Graciana’s facility but she is more in administration now, a position with normal, set daytime hours. It makes no sense for a call to be coming from her when it is nearly midnight.

“Avo,” Graciana says, finally finding her voice, “I'm at mamae’s house with everyone else. You know what today is, I'm sure.”

“Gia, please, I need you to tell me something. Did you operate today on someone named Stella Aditi?” Danae asks.

Graciana shakes her head, still disoriented by the conversation. She is exhausted and drained and can barely wrack her brain to remember what happened. At last she can say, “Yeah. My patient today was Stella Aditi. Why? Is she alright?”

“Graciana, I made a horrible mistake,” Danae says, “You have to forgive me. You weren't supposed to be there.”

“For what, avo? What did you do?” Graciana says. She looks at Francisca, who gives her a questioning expression in return.

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me,” Danae says and then hangs up.

A chill of panic runs through Graciana. She curses herself. It had not felt right earlier and she had ignored it. 

“What happened?” Francisca asks.

“Avo being weird,” Graciana says.

“Ah,” Francisca says.

“I have to go back to the hospital,” Graciana says, “I need to check on my patient.”

“Should I come?” Francisca asks. Seeing Graciana’s face, she adds, “I'll bring something for the nurses. Complain about the kids with them like old times.”

“Sure, sure,” Graciana says. She hurried to the room where she stays whenever she visits her mother. She has to get dressed and then go to PACU. One thing at a time, she forces herself to think.

Francisca drives painfully slow to the hospital. Before they even stop, Graciana leaps from the car and races in. The halls are nearly empty. As quietly as she can, Graciana hurries to the recovery area.

There are two patients there, one a man who's bedside sign indicates in named ‘McCoy, Leonard’ and another who is, ‘Aditi, Stella’. There's also two nurses sitting quietly at their station. There is only one visitor on the entire floor. Danae stands over Graciana’s patient, tears running down her eyes.

“Avo?” Graciana says. When her grandmother doesn't look up, Graciana reaches out and touches the older woman. Finally Danae looks at her with empty eyes.

“Gia?” Danae says, “What are you doing here?”

“You scared me. Is she okay?” Graciana says, looking at the monitors for signs of complications. The patient appears to be doing excellent. 

“She's - ” Danae tries.

“Is that who I think it is?” Francisca says, coming to stand behind Graciana. Danae is silent for too long and Francisca turns to Graciana to confirm, “This is Nyota Uhura. This is our great-great grandmother. I remember her from pictures in an old PADD I found years ago.”

Suddenly it all makes sense. Francisca can be nostalgic, had spent months several years ago making a family tree. Graciana lives in the moment, is always focused on what is before her, and hadn't been interested in the project in the least. Yet, it is family legend: how Nyota Uhura had saved thousands and died for her efforts and how Amandla Uhura had taken the pain and saves millions more. There would be no consent form or proper documentation for a woman who was over a hundred, born before the procedure in question even existed. 

“You? You're the reason why the cryogenic tubes went down?” Graciana demands. When her grandmother doesn't respond, her fear is only confirmed, “Avo, she could have died.” 

“She was fine though. She and the other patient I revived. They're both fine. I took every precaution. I made sure the rooms were ready, the alarms were set, and the right staff were on the floor except -”

“Except what?” Francisca asks.

But Graciana already knows. She wasn't supposed to be on the schedule. From the depth of her mind, a memory of medical law stirs.

For adults of the majority age, presumed consent can only be obtained from two independent and non-biased parties. This excludes family members, business associates, and those with vested interested in the case.

“I'm related to her. I can’t prove I’m not biased,” Graciana says, “I couldn't give consent for that procedure.”

And to perform surgery without consent could be viewed as battery or worse.

“Gia, I never meant for that to happen. You weren’t supposed to be the surgeon,” Danae says, tears on her cheeks, “I will take full responsibility -” 

“For what? They’re going to think I did all of this on purpose. I could lose my license, my reputation, everything,” Graciana says, “For some woman you don't even know. I'm your family. How can I accept an apology for this?”

Danae opens her mouth but words fail her again. She tries to touch Graciana, who only pulls away.

“Let's go,” Francisca says, disgust in her voice as she pulls Graciana away, “We'll figure something out.”

“Gia, Franca, please,” Danae calls after them, “I just wanted to take it back.”

Staff turn to stare at their administrator begging for understanding. Graciana and Francisca leave, untouched by her pleas.

.  
.  
.

It is a strange sensation. Not painful or unpleasant but strange. Yes, that's what it is, Ara decides. 

Like someone has cracked an egg over her head, and the yolk, albumen, and chalazae are dripping over her ears and cheeks. Ara has experienced many different sensation, a natural part of sharing a familial bond with many who had poor control over such transmissions. She had felt shame, ecstasy, and even terror in the face of almost certain death (courtesy of Ara’s grandmother Admiral Ama Kimathi and her great uncle Commander Amadi Kimathi of the USS Dare, who had, of course, survived the incident, thanks to three spark plugs and a piece of wrapping paper). Joy smells like fresh water and disgust felt like unpleasantly hot air on her skin.

Learning, to Ara’s surprise, felt like an egg being cracked over her head. She had to have felt it when her cousins or siblings or any of her family were learning new skills. She had simply never stopped to notice it before. This was louder than any link she had shared, almost impossible to ignore - 

“Can you please pay attention to the task at hand?” Lyra asks, for the third time.

Ara looked at the equation before her. There was no need for extended mental calculation. The answer was clear with a simple glance.

“You still hesitate before you release the bar on your second turn,” Ara says.

Lyra looks at the gymnastic equipment but makes no move to attempt the feat in question again. She is an accomplished gymnast. Her coach in Toronto the summer prior spoke enthusiastically about Lyra’s potential to attend the Olympic games being held in a year. 

“I feel like my grip isn't strong enough,” Lyra says for the eighth time that day.

Lyra is seventeen and Ara is fifteen. Yet, often their dynamic is unexpected.

“I tested you grip this morning and observed you multiple times,” Ara says calmly, “You are hesitating and that is the issue.”

“My weight is fine?” Lyra asks. 

Ara shrugs, “Perhaps if you were 14.01 ounces lighter, this asymmetrical bar exercise would be easier, particularly with your predilection for gripping too long but I think - “

“Perfect!” Lyra says, “How can I lose 14.01 ounces?”

If any of their more human relatives were present, Ara feels strongly that they would tell Lyra to let go of the bar, possibly with some degree of expletives. Ara takes a deep, calming breath, and says, “I think that is an extreme course of action.”

At that moment, Ara and Lyra’s cousins Sage and Malachite enter. Sage grins, shrugging off the loose sweater and capri pants she is wearing to show the leotard, tights, and leg warmers she had underneath, and says, “Morning Vulcanitas.”

“Good morning Sage, Malachite,” Ara says, “We enjoyed your show last night.” 

“Ah, thank you,” Malachite says.

“Can we join you in here?” Sage asks, “No rest for us. We have another show coming up and then a tour.”

There are multiple problems with the statements and subsequent questions. To begin with, Lyra and Ara are only 56.25% Vulcan, making the nickname which Sage bestowed upon them questionable. Additionally, it is 1307 in the afternoon. Finally, the room in question, with it’s hardwood floor and exercise equipment was built specifically by their great-great-great-grandmother for anyone to use, making the request mute. 

“Go ahead,” Ara says, instead of giving voice to what Sage and Malachite, with their 6.25% Vulcan DNA, would only interpret as eccentric thoughts. She understands her Brazilian human cousins and their mannerisms well enough. 

“How's this going?” Malachite asks, gesturing at the gymnastic equipment before bending to begin stretching. 

“I am 14.01 ounces too heavy,” Lyra says. 

Ara wants so badly to roll her eyes but Mother had said it was a poor practice, one which was rude and undermining. Instead, Ara’s mouth twists and her forehead tenses, making for a much stranger expression.

“Donate some blood and you'll be good,” Sage says. She sees Ara’s face and grins. Ara wonders if Sage struggles with her brother’s antics at times too. 

“That could work,” Lyra says, “I could just put it back right after the competition.”

“That's illegal. It raises your hemoglobin count and increases your endurance,” Ara says, “Any one who heard you were doing so would think you cheated.”

“But then I can do the exercise!” Lyra says. 

“Let go of the bar. That’s all you need to do,” Ara says.

“Why didn’t you say something before?” Lyra asks. 

The urge to roll Ara’s eyes is so strong that her head begins to ache at the effort to resist. Her voice hoarse, she tells Lyra, “Once more. Loose grip on the second turn.”

Lyra goes to chalk her hands. Then she stands, mentally readying herself for a moment before racing forward, launching herself into the air.

As her sister maneuvers among the two uneven bars, Ara feels her mind begin to wander. 

The learning is over. Sadness feels like being drowned without water and loneliness feels like being crushed. It was hard to ignore Nyota Uhura when her emotions were so strong and so easy to feel. Four weeks prior, Ara had slipped and sent Nyota a memory, a story Amandla had once told her about how her mother had taught her how to apply eye liner. 

The memory hadn’t made Nyota feel better. 

Lyra’s feet slam into the ground, her body tense and unshaken by the impact. Perfect form. “Did you see that?” Lyra says. 

“Exceptional,” Ara says. ‘Since you followed my feedback’, she thinks but does not articulate.

“That was rad,” Malachite says. He makes a subtle gesture to his sister. Sage nods and comes flying across the room into Malachite’s waiting arms. He lifts her above his head with what looks like complete ease. Sage holds herself with stunning grace for an individual who is hanging in the air. 

Ara is impressed. Sage is at least 182 centimeters tall and likely between 60 and 65 kilograms. Malachite is taller, about 190 centimeters and and between 70 and 75 kilograms, but it is still quite a physical feat for him to hold his sister up thusly. 

“That is rad too, I suppose,” Lyra says, crossing her arms over her chest. 

Ara bites her cheek and turns her attention to her equations. All her calculations are complete however and she begins to think of Nyota again. 

She had seen Nyota the night before at Sage, Malachite, and Xylia’s performance. Mother was surprised that their great-great-grandmother Danae had brought the woman and tried to insist Ara and Lyra not stare. Still, Ara had looked, so frequently she couldn’t help but notice she had the woman’s eyes and cheekbones.

Ara wonders how Nyota would feel if she knew that she had a family. Would she still mourn? Or would she embrace the chance to meet the descendants she might never have had the chance to know had she lived to a normal human life expectancy - 

“What time are we leaving again?” Lyra asks. Her head is bent, as she adjusts her gloves, and her tone is low, as if she assumes someone is listening to them. 

“2100,” Sage says. Malachite has adjusted her in his grasp and she dangles in his arms, head mere centimeters from the ground. Ara can understand how their artform had endured the ages. It is a fascinating mix of hidden physical power and grace. 

“Not so loud,” Lyra says. 

“There’s no one here except for Xylia and she was trying to learn how to play some awful instrument she got from Aldebaran III back in our room just now. Everyone is off doing - ” Malachite hesitates, “Finishing up court stuff, you know.”

Ara swallows the sudden lump in her throat. Her great-grandmother Danae had been charged not long after Nyota had been resurrected but Ara and Lyra’s mother had not shared many details with them. Ara only knew her great-aunt Thandiewe had built the case in defense of Danae and her own daughter and Franscisca, Bonifacio, and Graciana had helped Thandiewe, albeit with some obvious reluctance. 

Ara also knew that shortly after her mothers had heard about the case, they had refused to discuss Nyota at all, even when Ara and Lyra displayed obvious curiosity. 

Lyra and Ara’s mother T’Nya had not shared her opinion on the case. She and her sister T’Shara had only attended the court hearings. The only thing they would share with Ara and Lyra was that Danae would be on probation and there would be no consequences for Graciana, for her unintended mistake. Thandiewe Kimathi was an exceptional lawyer. 

When their mother had suggested they stay that day with Sage, Xylia, and Malachite at their grandmother Thandiewe’s house, Ara had feared they would be unwelcome. The only indication Ara had been given that there was strife was the night before when Xylia had thrown an arm around Ara’s shoulder and said, “We’re family, no matter what.”

T’Tal, Amandla, and Spock were not home either. Thandiewe had insisted they go on vacation, had even spent her own money to send them away. No one would say why but Ara had her suspicions. Just hours after Nyota had been resurrected, T’Nya had pulled her children aside and made them swear they would not bring up the topic of Nyota when Amandla or Spock were about. 

Ara couldn’t even imagine how Amandla and Spock would feel, knowing their family had kept such a secret from them. 

“You are certain you can get us admission to this club?” Lyra asks. 

“Pretty certain, yes,” Sage says, “You saw the fake identification cards my friend got us for you both. They’re pretty good. You just have to be confident and they wouldn’t suspect a thing.”

“I can be confident,” Lyra says. At that unfortunate moment, her voice cracks. Still, she sets her shoulders and forces her face into a smile. 

“What’s your name?” Malachite says. 

“Lyra - ”

“Your fake name.”

Lyra sighs enormously, “Candy Bane.”

“When is your birthday?” 

“February 29th,” Lyra says. 

“Where were you born?”

“Nashville, Tennessee.”

It was ridiculous - the name, the birthday, that an individual who obviously had Vulcan heritage would be born in the American South, the plan in it’s entirety really - but Lyra had spoke of nothing else for nearly two weeks now. Mother had read extensively on the developmental needs of adolescents, which often included a need to rebel against social mores, regarding of their genetic heritage. It seemed that this might a necessary task for Lyra to accomplish before she could move to the next life stage, one which Ara could only hope didn’t involve schemes which could potentially end in arrest. 

When Ara had shared her concerns with her mother, T’Nya had insisted Sage would take care of them and that it was necessary to allow Lyra this opportunity to rebel, even with unknown safeguards. 

‘I’m Captain Buzzkill of the USS Killjoy,’ Sage had said when called upon to explain further, ‘I watched out for everyone. I make sure you can’t get any drugs or alcohol and if I see you with keezy people, I come over and loudly complain I’m having bathroom problems. I see that face you’re making and yes, I can report that I have yet to see a person who isn’t put off by that. Just part of my job being the oldest cousin.’

And so, their well being was in Sage’s hands. 

“I look acceptable right?” Lyra asks, several hours later. She had changed no less than eleven times, each outfit appearing equally appropriate for the situation as the last. 

“It’s perfect,” Ara says for the eleventh time. 

Lyra goes to change. As if summoned by Ara’s disdain alone, Sage pokes her head in and asks, “You two ready?”

“Yes,” Lyra squeaks, turning abruptly from her previous task. She grabs her bag and then Ara before following Sage into the hallway. 

They walk quietly through the house without turning on lights. Malachite and Xylia are waiting by the stairwell which leads into the kitchen where a back door will allow them to discretely exit. 

Even in the dim light, Ara cannot help but notice how lovely her cousins look. Sage and Malachite wear tight black clothing which highlight their long, taunt bodies. Xylia is dressed in looser outfit which shows off her softer, more sensual form. Their faces are painted to perfection and their hair is done in a style almost identical to that which might be seen on one of the celebrities Lyra often obsesses over. 

When will I be beautiful? The thought is so clear in Ara’s mind, she almost thinks it is her own. Yet she knows better. Next to Ara, Lyra pulls at the dress she wears. It is the same frock she wore to her high school graduation the year prior.

We are all beautiful, Ara thinks, touching Lyra’s hand. Her sister glances at her out of the corner of her eye and smiles, not really believing Ara. 

The group slips down the stairs and into the kitchen. No one sees that the light is on in the kitchen. At the head of the group, Sage stops and motions for them to turn back but it is too late. 

“Where are you going?”

“Nowhere,” Sage says brightly and without even a breath of hesitation. Lying comes easily to her, Ara notes. 

Not good lying though. 

“Really?” Amandla says. She is sitting at the table, drinking tea. Next to her, Spock reads from a PADD, his eyes looking up at them when Amandla speaks. 

“Yeah,” Malachite says, strangely breathless, “Just going out to the store to get something. Lia was hungry so - ”

“That’s right, I wanted something to snack on. We’re watching movies upstairs and there’s no popcorn here. How can people live like this, bibi?” Xylia adds, “Aren’t you supposed to be on vacation?”

“We came back early. I wanted to see Thandiewe but she's not here,” Amandla’s eyes pass across them, taking in their dress and make-up. “Is that how you watch movies at home? Glamorous.”

“We try,” Lyra says, her voice much more high pitched than average.

Amandla looks to Ara, who nearly withers before she forces her face into a neutral mien. 

“We’ll be back in a bit,” Ara says. Everyone in room appears surprised by the lie, including Ara. 

Amandla makes a noise and then reaches for Spock’s PADD, tapping the screen a few times. Ara feels her bag shudder and a familiar notes rises from amongst her things. 

“Take fifty credits, on me,” Amandla says. She winks, “For popcorn.”

“Thanks. We’ll bring you something nice back. Or not,” Lyra says. Xylia groans. Sage and Malachite hurry them out the back door. Ara pauses to glance back at Amandla and Spock. 

Spock’s is reading again from his PADD and Amandla’s attention is on her tea. When they think they are alone though, Amandla chuckles. Then she reaches out and takes Spock’s hand.

Of all the minds in the family, they possessed the two realms of awareness that Ara wanted most to access and was least able to. The familial link was blocked to Spock and Amandla and had been for as long as Ara could remember. The only one who was allowed into Amandla’s mind was her father, it seemed, and vice versa. 

Ara wanted desperately to tell them that Nyota was looking for them. Nyota’s mind was clouded by poorly formed memories and strong emotions but that much, Ara was certain of. 

In any event, Ara will not be telling them anything of the sort, at least not in that moment. Lyra corrals her into the night and they are off. 

Forty-five minutes later, they are staring down a massive Klingon-human hybrid with a flashlight and a skeptical eye. 

“Dixie Love?” the bouncer says, glancing between the digital file in his hand and the shivering Ara who stands before him, “You’re 23 years old?”

“Vulcans age slower,” Sage says, pressing against him as she points to something on the fake identification card. “She just had a birthday, you see. You must meet plenty of aliens, yeah?”

“Different people, beautiful in their own way,” Malachite says, smiling at the bouncer, his tongue licking his lip salaciously.

“April 30th. What’s your zodiac sign, Dixie?” the bouncer asks. 

“Taurus,” Ara says. Lyra had made her a sheet with the answers to such questions and had been quizzing her since they left the house. 

“Come on,” Malachite says, touching a spot on his neck, “Let her in.”

The scent of pheromones is sudden and so overwhelming, several of the people behind them leaned forward, pressing against their backs. Humans often realized too late what 12.5% of Malachite and Sage’s DNA enabled them to do. Their father had been a merchant from Mars with barely a greenish tint to his skin. Sage and Malachite were darker skinned, with only the slightest discoloration to their palms and the bottom of their feet. 

It takes a moment for the effect to reach the bouncer himself. When it does, it is most alarming. 

He smiles, his teeth shaved to fierce points. Holding the door open, he waves them in, his tone bright, “Have a good time!”

Sage had told them it was the biggest salsa club in the city but Ara is still dazed when she sees the swarm of people, hears the thunder of music, and feels the pulse of dancing under her feet.

Sage and Malachite skip ahead of them into the club, quickly getting absorbed by the crowd inside. Ara catches glimpses of them, their bodies skillfully moving in sync with the beat of the loud music.

As if sensing their discomfort, Xylia takes both of their hands and leads them to a more quiet corner. She is not nearly as dextrous or limber as Sage or Malachite but she is able to move through the steps each song requires with grace.

Lyra is not so fortunate. She clings to Xylia, who tries to give her instruction. Ara winces as she watches her sister stomp on their cousin’s feet.

Eventually Xylia gently pushes Lyra away and takes Ara as a partner, which is a marginal improvement. Ara inflicts no bodily injury but is so focused on their feet, that the whole spectacle is embarrassingly bad. 

Xylia tries to have patience, switching between the sisters multiple times as the songs change but finally, toes stinging and jaw tight, a man appears from the crowd and taps on Xylia’s shoulder. She gives Ara and Lyra a glance, silently asking for permission. They nod and Xylia disappears into the crowd too.

Ara and Lyra stay in the corner, arms around each other, half-heartedly trying to mimic the steps Xylia just taught them. Every so often, Sage appears to check on them but for the most part, they stand separate from the crowd. Through the bond, Ara can feel Lyra’s embarrassment. She holds her sister more tightly, wishing they could leave. Sage and Malachite are enjoying themselves and they can see Xylia laughing with her new partner. 

Several minutes later, they find themselves leaning against the wall, watching the other dancers around them. Lyra glares at the ease with which everyone else seems to move.

“We have to practice,” Lyra snaps, “I need to be good at this.”

Perhaps this wasn’t a developmental stage. Perhaps this was an impulse Lyra would never grow out of.

“Yes, Lyra,” Ara says. Patience, she thinks. The adolescent years seemed like they would be a painful without it.

Ara feels a sudden pressure at the base of her skulls. She shifts, shaking her head, but this only serves to make the sensation spread across her scalp. The familial bond is opening up, expanding to allow another.

“Ara, get out of our great-great grandmother’s head,” Lyra snaps, barely loud enough to be heard.

“What?” Ara asks. 

“Oh, I can all feel you when you do that. I felt you when you were helping her with her letters and I felt you when you were giving her memories,” Lyra says, nodding, “And if I can, she can.”

Ara tries to pull back but she cannot. She catches a whiff of something, like fresh earth that has just been washed by the rain. Sage and Malachite appear from the crowd, moving towards them, a question on their face to which there is no ready answer. Nearby, Xylia halts too, nearly colliding with another dancer. They all know who this new presence is. 

T’Tal, Amandla’s wife is in their family bond, communicating with Nyota. They all can hear her, as clearly as if she were next to them. She is telling Nyota to look into the bottom drawer of some desk. 

Nyota complies. 

Then there is a rush of information. In an instant, Nyota is one of them. Their history, their personalities, every detail of their person is shared with her. She knows them, as if no time ever separated her from her family. 

Everyone is there. Danae, alone in her home, free from worry for the brief moment. Thandiewe, Franscia, and Graciana, their attention torn from their work by this sudden occurrence. Bonifacio’s wife Chulunny, pausing as she put her children, Khutulun, Börte, Töregene, Luciano, Asad, and Sorghaghtani to bed. Somewhere, deep in space, Ama, her wife T’Ora, and Amadi are interrupted during a busy shift. T’Nya and T’Reth, Ara and Lyra’s mothers, stop their conversation and become silent from their living room hundreds of miles away. Their aunt and uncle, T’Shara and Selk, come into this new awareness as they ready dinner alongside their children, Soren, Arev, and T’Rah. In a quiet house, in the Lunar colonies, their great-uncle Sizwe is startled awake, as is his daughter Alya and her own child, a little girl named after her great-great-great mother. 

Everyone, Ara notes, except for Spock and Amandla. 

You have to forgive me. They all hear him say it. They all know what he intends to do. 

Uncle Bonifacio is talking her from the Institute. 

Without a word spoken, they leave. Their destination is there house where Amandla and Spock currently are. Nyota is on her way.


	15. Chapter 15

She does not remember falling asleep. 

The den is quiet, save for the sound of a fan which circulates already frigid air. Amandla shivers. It was not the freezing room temperature which roused her.

A hand touches her again. She recognizes the other individual instantly. T’Tal says, “Wake up. The family that we share is waiting for you.”

The family that we share. The family which neither T’Tal nor Amandla ever expected to have. What are they doing in Amandla’s cold house in the middle of the night? Has she forgotten a scheduled family event? She searches her internal calendar but there are no birthdays, anniversaries, or holidays to prepare for. Amandla shakes her head, still half-asleep.

T’Tal stands and leaves, more than likely expecting that Amandla will follow. She keeps the door to the den open. 

Through the entryway, a quiet melody flows from somewhere in the house. 

Spock sits in a chair across the room from her,watching the space where T’Tal departed, near to his daughter as he always is. When Amandla had first been pulled from the darkness, at her second chance at life, he had promised to never leave her again and he had kept that vow. 

“Do you hear it as well?”

He does. Someone with a deep, rich voice is singing lyrics with haunting beauty: The skies are green and glowing, Where my heart is, where my heart is, Where the scented lunar flower is blooming: Somewhere, beyond the stars… Beyond Antares.

Amandla stands and goes towards the sound, Spock following her closely. From the windows, they can both see that the dark of night is surrendering to the grey of dawn. By the time they have arrived in the kitchen, there is more than one voice singing. 

The children have returned from their secret nocturnal excursion but they are not the only voices which are singing the old lullabye. Francisca and Graciana are there along with their mother Thandiewe. 

How can they know this song? Amandla has never sang it to them. 

Danae is there too, next to T’Tal, waiting as well, but sitting away from the others, staring at nothing. Amandla wants to go to Danae, to comfort her. There is guilt in her daughter’s eyes that is easy to recognize. 

I already know your sins, Amandla thinks, I already forgive you. 

Her family thought she hide from them, refused to allow them a connection to her. In truth, she did not want them to know of the debt. Like all sacrifices, it brought a certain peace. 

Danae had enjoyed a beautiful family, a happy marriage. It made no sense for them both to suffer with the knowledge of that exchange. 

Amandla had not forgotten those years she and Spock had spent alone, nor her endless hunt for salvation. Instead she found different type of peace, away from that which she had pursued for so long. At first it had been tenuous, then it had been enough, now it was pushed away for a new kind of joy. 

And she does forgive Danae for her deceptions. It had taken years to truly let it go but she had. After all, hadn’t she too sacrificed to try and save her own mother?

I'll be back, though it takes forever. Forever is just a day. Forever is just another journey. Tomorrow a stop along the way.

Thandie sees Amandla first. The younger woman stands and rushes toward her. There is something in her granddaughter’s eyes that Amandla cannot recognize. Is it fear? Is it anticipation? Perhaps both emotions, which felt so similar they could be the same?

“What is it, mpenzi?” Amandla asks, as Thandie reaches up to touch her face, “What is happening?”

“No one knows what it feels like to lose someone so necessary, except you and I.” Thandie says, “My husband is truly gone though. My wounds have been allowed to heal. I didn’t want you to suffer in any way.”

“You would never hurt me on purpose,” Amandla says, “I know that.”

“It killed me to hold this truth from you,” Thandie pulls away from Amandla, goes to open the front door.

Then let the years go fading, Where my heart is, where my heart is, Where my love eternally is waiting Somewhere, beyond the stars… Beyond Antares.

Bonifacio stands in the threshold, hand up ready to push on the handle. When he sees them, he steps to the side. 

It is strange to see her mother before her, young and full of life, but not so much that she is unrecognizable. 

For a moment, no one moves. Time stretches before them, endless and insurmountable. 

“Spock?” Nyota says. Her words seem to shatter the air, “Amandla?”

She reaches out. Her touch is moves past everything. 

“Look at you,” Nyota says. 

Amandla cannot help herself. For the first time in many years, she opens herself to the familial bond, allowing a rush of emotions to be transferred to and from her. 

She can feel her father’s love, his happiness which defies all description, above everything. He is whole again. 

Danae inhales a breath, nearly overcome by the intense connection. Tear stream down her cheeks. 

Nyota requires a moment, her dark eyes puzzled as the schema in her mind shifts. Then, the time, the pain, the plague, the darkness, and all that followed slips away in obscurity, and she runs into their arms, as if she had never been away. 

.  
.  
.

There had been a time when decency and regulation forbade him from expressing any kind of affection for her. He had not found it to be a hardship for he had not known at the time how intoxicating her touch was.

In his youth he had known very little physical expressions of intimacy. Occasionally, his mother would embrace him or kiss his face. More rarely, his father would touch him, to ascertain his well being, mostly in times of illness. Once, during their visits with one another, he and T’Pring had attempted to engage in acts of mutually satisfactory physical release, with both parties achieving minimal success. 

His experiences with Nyota were distinct, separate from all others. It had begun with an accidental touch, one late night when she passed him a PADD and she immediately apologized, knowing what such contact meant to his race. He had tried to forget and found that he fixated on how smooth and warm her skin was, how engaging her mind felt when connected to his, for many weeks after.

The second time had come months later, when after much internal deliberation, he had given her a token of his affection: a book of his favorite poems. He had hoped it would end his infatuation with her but she had appreciated the gift such that he couldn't help but feel his emotional connection growing for her until he could not hide it. Any other human would have mistook his expression but not her. She had seen his vulnerability. When he had found her that day soon after in the library, when she had shared that she returned his affection and he had been able to touch her, to kiss her, he had been consumed. 

His knowledge of anatomy, specifically neurotransmitters and the feedback loop, warned him that such ravenous reactions would be temporary and would weaken with the passage of time. Yet he found the opposite. With each year, she continued to give herself to him and he found he only wanted more. He ached to feel every emotion and every sensation that she could give him. 

She seemed to know him in his entirety, with her every caress and stroke. With a tact that he could only guess at, she understood if he need her embrace, her chastisement, her grace, her fear, her encouragement. 

And she had given him much of herself in return. He had known the scent of her as she experienced ecstasy. He had heard the subtle timber in her voice when she said his name. He had seen the tears in her eyes as he swore himself to her and her alone. He had felt the life which they had made together, the new beginning that had grown in her.

Amandla. She had been the joy of their lives. He had never thought that a small child falling asleep in his arms would bring him such joy nor the sight of a young baby taking their first steps into his wife’s arms give him such pride but he had learned to find the unexpected often brought the most favorable of gifts.

He had spoken the last words she ever heard. Hold on, he had begged in those last moments they had together. He hoped it would surmise all that he could not say: do not leave me, I will be broken without you, it will haunt me that I could not save you. 

She had not heard his pleas. 

His entire existence changed. Things that had once brought his joy became painful reminders. Every sound became a warning, every touch of sympathy felt like he was being taunted with what he had lost. 

Amandla was different as well. When they had said she could be saved, he had not hesitated. She had screamed in pain, fought their every intervention, and begged him to stop but she had survived. He had not expected her to thank him but the sight of hate in her eyes nearly destroyed him completely. 

She no longer threw her arms around him in greeting or kissed his cheeks before her sleep. Instead she struck him, scratched him, kicked at him, with no warning or purpose. Her anger overflowed, became an earthquake that tore apart everything in its wake. He felt everything she felt through their bond and it rendered him barely functional. He began to have nightmares that Amandla would be taken too only to awake and realize they were scarcely dreams at all.

After his child and wife were gone, he hardly felt another’s touch at all. There were careless handshakes and pats on the back of encouragement, the unfeeling hands which helped him in times of need, and little else. 

The days were long but the years were short. He received a messages from his mother-in-law about his daughter’s achieves, letters which came several weeks after the date when it seemed it would be ill-taste to send congratulations. He learned from his son-in-law that he had a granddaughter but did not see pictures of the child until the girl was over a year old. The world continued without him. 

He remained close to Jim, held a friendship with Pavel Chekov, Hikaru Sulu, Montgomery Scott, and a few other crew members. He learned of his daughter’s experiments and found himself waiting with bated breath. 

Yet he found her pouring more and more of herself into he work and realized he was not the only one slowly dying. He tried on many occasions to stop her but she never listened. She knew his hypocrisy. They continued to be lost in their orbits, never to cross paths until she was struck down. 

There was a moment when sanity and self-preservation demanded that he surrender himself to logic. Kolinahr. It was tempting, the idea of release, and he nearly gave into it. Yet, he found he could not. 

For one of his required classes at the Academy, he had read once in a psychology textbook that there was no pleasure without pain, no joy without suffering, and vice versa. His time with Nyota and Amandla had been the happiest of his life. To remember them would serve no rational purpose. He would not give away those years. He would carry them, no matter the hardship. It became his rebirth. 

He was not certain he would survive if Amandla perished. Thus, in the absence of complete logic, he indulge in more emotional coping mechanisms. He allowed himself to believe a fallacy that she could be treated, would be treated, if he could only make her earthly body survive until such time. He continued to believe this until, outside of all reason, she came back. 

Having Amandla return to him was like a deep breath after nearly drowning. They both had given their blood, their minds, their souls, slowly over the years, bit by bit until they realized, too late, that there was very little left. Yet in life, there was always hope and they found a reason, together, to continue and in time, they found new forms of happiness. There were children and babies to enjoy the company of, events to cherish, memories to be made. 

There was a part of him, one that was infinitely more human than he thought himself capable of being, that yearned for Nyota. ‘If you love somebody, let them go,’ he recalled his mother reading to him, ‘For it they return, they were always your. And if they don't, they never were.’ He let himself believe this and felt Nyota in his descendant’s smiles, in their sharp intelligence, in their affectionate touch. 

Energy was permanent but its form was not. By that logic, she was never away from him. He could believe she would return and the words became more than mere comfort. 

To see her, fully realized, felt almost like a cruel joke. Logic had always been a friend and enemy. That any probability would favor him felt impossibly untrue. She was real though. Her touch was just as he remembered. It was greater than reason, more infinite to him than all summation. 

When they are alone, she is just as he remembers. She runs her hands through his hair, unconcerned it was greying and finer than before. Her hands are just as warm and soft as that first accidental touch. She gives herself to him, in her entirety. He is not young and movement made his joints ache but she soothes him with gentle words and healing touch. They find bliss together again. He holds her tightly, long after it is finished, savoring for he knows now how easily he could be forced to release her. 

.  
.  
.

“Want to see something cool?” Sizwe Kimathi asks. Nyota and Spock’s youngest great-grandchild is a massive man with deep dimples, a soothing voice, and Amandla’s hazel eyes. Before Nyota can respond, he has turned and asked his sister Thandiewe, “Lunch is ready. Can you call everyone down? Just for fun, do it in age order.”

Thandiewe blinks. She had remained awake for many nights now, greeting family members and finding places for them to sleep. It had truly been incredible how Nyota’s family had come from all corners of the galaxy on such short notice. 

It is not nearly impressive, however, as the manner in which Thandie bellows up the stairs:

“Uncle Jim, Auntie Imani, Ko'mekh-il, Bibi, Mama, T’Ora, Ama, Amadi, Sizwe, Franca, Gia, T’Nya, Selk, T’Ret, T’Shara, Bonifacio, Chuluuny, Alya, Sage, Xylia, Malachite, Lyra, T’Rah, Ara, Soren, Arev, Khutulun, Börte, Töregene, Luciano, Asad, little Nyota, and Sorghaghtani,” Thandie stops to take a breath, “Everyone come eat.”

“She knows everything, all of our birth weights, rings sizes, and blood types, everything,” Sizwe says, throwing an arm around his older sister, “Go on. Ask her.”

“It’s fine,” Nyota says. She reaches out to take the hand of Spock, who is sitting next to her. 

“Sage, Chuluuny, and T’Rah are all type O negative and wear size 7 rings,” Thandie says. She smiles tightly at Nyota, most likely due to the hushed lecture they had all heard her get this morning from Imani, “Alya’s daughter Little Nyota was the lightest - 1.7 kilograms or 3.8 pounds and Sizwe was the heaviest baby - 4.6 kilograms or 10.1 pounds. As you can guess, he was Mama’s last baby.”

Nyota smiles. A harsh fury crosses Thandie’s eyes and she turns away. 

Sizwe squeezes Thandie’s shoulder. Thandie glances at his hand and then into her younger brother’s eyes before sighing and forcing herself to relax. 

Bonifacio rushes in, precariously herding five of his children. He had tried to stay by Nyota’s side so that she wouldn’t be overwhelmed or feel out of place but earlier that week his wife had arrived with their six children in tow and his attempts to divide his attention between Nyota and his daughters and sons has been, understandably, unequal. It seems his oldest daughter Khutulun had begun teaching the younger ones how to wrestle. It took all of his effort to prevent them from breaking every piece of furniture in the house. 

“Here’s the tumen. I have child one through child five, but the baby khagan is down for a nap,” Bonifacio says.

“No, she isn’t. I’ve got her,” Chuluuny, Bonifacio’s wife says, coming in behind him. Their newborn daughter is tucked into a carrier which is wrapped around her mother’s chest. Chuluuny gives her husband a look, “I’ve had her for almost an hour. We were taking a bath.”

“Oh, good,” Bonifacio says, “When I couldn’t find her, I was certain I had left her in the pantry when I was warming a bottle last night. Wasn’t sure how to navigate that situation.”

Francisca and Graciana pull up tables and chairs for everyone and snicker at Bonifacio’s comment. 

“Don’t start,” Bonifacio puts his kids down in the chairs and helps his mother set the table, “I caught your kids sneaking out last night with their poor innocent cousins in tow.”

“Hey!” Sage calls from the doorway, Malachite and Xylia behind her and Ara and Lyra behind them. 

“Sorry, dear. Collateral damage,” Bonifacio says, “If I can’t sleep, we all have to suffer.” 

“We weren’t sneaking out. We were sneaking in,” Malachite adds, “The club closed early because Sage accidentally set off the alarm connected to the emergency exit while making out with that dude who watches the door.”

“Not a good save, Mal,” Xylia says, “For many reasons.”

“As an aside, Ara and Lyra are getting much better at dancing,” Sage says loudly. When the attention is on her, she gives the room a wide, saccharine smile, “And Xylia had given up that instrument that sounds like a Klingon being deep-throated - ”

“MA!” Bonifacio says, gesturing to his children.

“Franca, your daughter,” Thandie snaps. 

“Stop it, Sage. There are children here,” Francisca says, trying not to laugh, “We already knew Cio. Sage has a very prestigious title.”

“That still a tradition?” Bonifacio asks, struggling to get his two year old twins to sit down, while balancing a tower of plates.

“What’s still a tradition?” Lyra asks. Before anyone can respond, she clears her throat loudly just as her parents, aunt, and uncle enter. 

The foursome are deep in conversation about their company, which harnesses energy from volcanoes on Mars for domestic usage - “Vulcan volcanologists,” Xylia had pointed out to Nyota. Nevertheless, Ara and Lyra’s mother T’Nya nods when she sees Sage and Nyota has a sneaking suspicion that the children didn’t leave the night before without permission. 

T’Shara acknowledges Nyota and Spock before sitting between her husband and sister at the end of the table. She and T’Nya are both petite and delicate looking, the same contrast to their respective husband and wife who both stand tall and regal. Nyota knows better. She had seen the sisters practicing Suus Mahna that morning. Both T’Nya and T’Shara were vicious fighters. Spock had taught them well. 

“Is it cheating or is it just smart?” Ama says, strolling in, arm and arm with Captain Kirk, who grins at the younger Admiral. 

“It is cheating,” Ama’s wife T’Ora says.

“Why are you taking his side?” Ama snaps. Her twin brother Amadi follows in, a deep glare on his face. 

“You cheated,” T’Ora replies, “You are allotted one move each turn. You made two moves in a single turn. Such is impermissible and thereby cheating.”

“You’re my wife,” Ama says.

“She was my best friend before she was your wife,” Amadi points out.

“Neither of those relationships are relevant to the topic at hand,” T’Ora says, “I know humans do not believe the truth should determine which side is supported but I feel differently.”

“This is because of that incident with the Nausicaans,” Ama says to Kirk, “The way they gang up to guilt me, you’d think I wasn’t the one that got shot. It was all part of my plan though, Uncle. The lieutenant was acting on my orders. Let them think the crew is rioting and I can’t control them so they can take over the ship and then jump them when they get too comfortable. It seemed like I was mortally wounded but I was in charge the whole time. I call it the ‘triple cross’. Never fails.”

“I call it stupid,” Amadi says, “She didn’t tell anyone else the plan and seeing her go down like that nearly destroyed everyone. Made me wish you could have lasted more than six hours as an administrator for Starfleet Academy before screaming you needed your ship back.”

“Well first of all, I have apologized multiple times. And second of all, it wasn’t six hours. It was three. They wanted me to do the class schedule, Uncle Kirk. Me! I’m the number one enemy of the Orion Syndicate and they wanted me to use my skills to make the class schedule,” Ama fumes. 

“I’m sure she could have gotten into tons of trouble at Starfleet,” Kirk says. He nods to Nyota, who rolls her eyes. 

“How are your lips?” Amadi seethes, looking around Kirk at his twin. 

Ama’s expression changes and she rubs her mouth, which is still bright red from the powdered spice which Amadi had rubbed into her cup before pouring coffee. The twins have been locked in a prank war since they were toddlers. Ama glances to see if their mother is looking and then mouths, ‘I’ll get you.’

“This exchange is inconsequential. Last month, they were playing ping pong and I was certain there would be a homicide at the end of the game,” T’Ora says when she notices the hidden smiles around the room.

“Thankfully, they have had an intelligent, beautiful, tolerant wife and friend like you to keep them safe for sixty or so years,” Francisca says. 

“My life with them has been fascinating. They have always been an interesting psychological phenomenon,” T’Ora notes. 

Soren, Arev, and T’Rah rush in from the garage, followed closely by a plume of smoke, their clothing slightly singed. To the understanding of their parents Selk and T’Shara, the three siblings were working on robotic equipment for Sage and Malachite’s next dance production. In actuality, as Nyota had discovered when she’d gone to give them a snack, they were making a robot for a local competition, a secret she had only kept when she was certain they had the appropriate safety equipment. 

“Halfway done,” Arev says as the trio rush to their seats. When he thinks no one can see, he lickes his fingers and reaches out to put out a strand of Soren’s hair which is still sizzling. Nyota reconsiders her oath of secrecy. 

Imani and Amandla enter from the backyard, arms fill with art supplies, their hands covered in dried paint. For the past twenty years, Amandla had been procuring various advanced degrees in everything from Fine Art to Quantum Physics, a hobby which she shared with her oldest friend. One of their final projects for a recent class involved painting scenery, but according to Sizwe, Imani was not nearly as talented as Amandla, much to the former’s annoyance. 

That day, Amandla had not been able to focus on their project, choosing instead to reach out for Nyota through their bond, as if making sure her mother was still there and feeling a deep contentment when she was. She does so then too, as she took the chair next to Nyota which had been left empty. 

Finally, Sizwe’s only child Alya and her young daughter, a toddler named in Nyota’s honor, appear. Nyota al-Kahinah Kimathi sees her namesake and waves, her chubby hands covered in dirt.

Her great-great-great-granddaughter was named after her, Nyota thinks. Alya had wondered allowed that morning if they should call the little girl Nia or some other nickname. It didn’t seem like anyone had thought the issue would ever occur.

It was, in one incredibly insufficient word, strange.

It is wonderful too. There are so many people in the kitchen, so much love and warmth. Nyota listens to the bits of conversation, admiring the scene before her. Her husband and daughter are finally by her side. She barely touches her food, preferring instead to clutch both Amandla and Spock’s hands in her own. 

Every so often, Nyota can feel someone looking at her. When she searches for the one who had their attention on her, no one is starring. She knows everything there is to know about those around her, yet, they are strangers. 

Alya leans over, easily pulling Nyota into a conversation about some books on linguistics. Alya is adopted but she had been the first to offer a hug Nyota upon greeting her. “This family is close,” she had assured Nyota, “But you will become ours and we will look after you.”

Spock looks at her, his affection feeling like a kiss on her skin. 

Amandla smiles, holds up a spoonful of stew so that Nyota can eat. 

.  
.  
.

Nyota fumbles through the dark corridor. It is nearly midnight but thirst had driven her from the warmth of Spock’s arms. She opens the door to what she hopes is the bathroom and turns on the light.

It is not the bathroom. From her seat at the wide wooden desk, Thandie squints at the sudden brightness. 

“I’m so sorry,” Nyota says, “I was looking for a drink.”

Thandie gestures to the refrigeration unit in the corner. Nyota goes to pull out a container of juice, the fluid wonderfully refreshing as she sips. She looks at Thandie out of the corner of her eyes, noting that the other woman is watching her too. 

“What are you doing up so late?” Nyota asks. 

“I’m writing a brief. The Institute wants you to return,” Thandie says. When Nyota opens her mouth to protest, Thandie holds up a hand, “You wouldn’t be going back. I’m making it so that we have temporary custody over you until you can be medically cleared.”

That was not the response Nyota expected but she feels relieved, “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Isn’t it?”

“I’m the reason you’re here,” Thandie says, so quickly the words seem like they were forced from her mouth. For once, there is not a glare on her face, “Did you know that?”

“What do you mean?”

“A year ago, my grandmother went to my sister Ama. They made arrangements regarding you,” Thandie gestures for Nyota to sit down, “Amandla wanted to be sure that if anything happened to her, you would be taken care of. I was furious.”

Nyota almost asks why. It only takes a moment of thought to hold her tongue. Amandla and Spock were old, even for Vulcan-human hybrids. They did not expect to live forever. Nyota’s throat feels tight at the thought. Still, she is surprised when Thandie continues. 

“I wanted my bibi to have chosen me to look after you. I wanted to be there for her in every way,” Thandie says, “I couldn’t understand why she picked Ama instead. Now I do, after thinking about it for a bit. I would have insisted she not talk about her death. I can’t bear the thought as you can imagine. Ama and bibi have always been the same. They both have always craved more responsibility, both so dedicated to their senses of duty, both understood and accepted death. Starfleet and the universe abound taught my sister and your daughter the same lesson, albeit in different ways.”

Nyota isn’t sure what to say. Finally she manages, “I would never wish those lessons on anyone.” 

Something changes in Thandie’s expression. There is a softness to her eyes. “Neither would I. I hate that my little sister knows and that bibi knows.”

They, Nyota and Thandie, are very similar too. Nyota wonders if Thandie is aware of that. She wonders if that is part of why Thandie dislikes her so much. 

“I was petty,” Thandie says, “I complained to my mother. She was distraught and I immediately regretted saying anything. I had brought back the ghosts my mother was always trying to hide from. I had taken her tenuous peace. I cannot say I was surprised to hear about you after that. I was only angry with the means she took, even after I was able to make it right.”

In that moment, something clicks in Nyota’s mind. It’s not anger she sees in Thandie’s face. It’s guilt. From what Nyota has heard, it seems to be a family tradition. 

“My life will never be what I thought it would be,” Nyota says. Thandie looks away, shame etched deep into the lines of her face until Nyota adds, “But whose life ever turns out the way they thought it would?”

Thandie’s hands fist on the table. When her eyes meet Nyota’s again, they are shining with tears. “You can still have many happy years with them. You’ll have experiences you never could have known. I will never let anyone take that away from you.”

Nyota shakes her head. There should be no debt among family. “You don’t owe me anything. No one ever did.”

“We didn’t want to owe you anything. We needed to,” Thandie says. 

“Well, I’m the reason any of your exist and I demand you stop counting coins and just love each,” Nyota says. 

“You fell into being a great-great-great grandmother easily,” Thandie notes. 

Nyota thinks back to the Academy and the Enterprise, “I have had practice with many different kinds of families.”

Thandie fights a smile, “Whatever you say - ”

“Nyota. Call me Nyota.”

“Whatever you says, Nyota.” 

.  
.  
.

Amandla settles into her bed. She had been trying to read for nearly an hour without success. It is a rare quiet, well past midnight. 

Most of her family is asleep with a few exceptions. Chuluuny is caring for the baby while Bonifacio tries to relax in bed, surrounded on all sides by kicking children. Sage and Malachite are teaching Lyra and Ara a few dance steps while Xylia fiddles with an electronic Vulcan lyre that she has created. On the back porch, Imani and T’Tal are watching the stars and talking about life’s eccentricities. In another room, Spock and Nyota are together.

‘I had faith that this would happen,’ her father had said. Amandla couldn’t be sure what he had believed would eventually come. Was it that Nyota would return? Was it that they would be happy?

It didn’t matter she supposed. Her father, the man of science faced with impossible odds, had faith.

The thought warms her heart. Who or what had taught him to have faith?

Amandla stares at the same line for a few more moments before the door cracks open. Sighing, Amandla puts away the PADD with her poetry on it. She had felt Danae’s attention for several minutes now.

“I wanted to name you Khalil. Did you know that?” Amandla says. 

Danae hovers in the doorway, nodding, “Chichi thought it sounded bad with our last names.”

“That,” Amandla says, “And when I held you for the first time, the name simply didn’t fit you. I couldn’t give you a name that was a memory. I wanted to give you a name that you could become. It means, ‘she who judges.’ I hoped that it would make you into a woman who looked at life with a keen eye.”

“How did you find that name?” Danae asks. 

“Imani suggested it,” Amandla says. She gestures for Danae to come sit with her on the bed. When her daughter doesn’t obey, she asks, “What's wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why are you standing in my doorway instead of sleeping?”

“Just thinking,” Danae says. She moves slowly to sit at the foot of the mattress. 

“About what?” Amandla asks. There had always been a distance between them, both real and imaginary, one that had seemed unyielding. 

Yet, if there was one thing Amandla had come to understand, it was that change was constant and life could be most unexpected. She and Danae could still be close, if they could only move away from the past. 

“When did you realize that I made the switch? When did you come to know I took your mother’s consent form and used you in her stead?” Danae asks, her words pressured as if she is afraid she will lose her nerve if she hesitates. 

Amandla pulls away the covers, slipping closer to Danae. Her daughter avoids her gaze, her features tense. 

“I looked at my medical records, a few years after my surgery,” Amandla says. 

“You’ve known for that long?” Danae says, her voice cracking. Her cheeks are wet and when Amandla moves to wipe away her tears, Danae turns away, clenching her teeth. “I never realized you knew. I would never have - ”

She does not finish the thought. 

“I was angry,” Amandla says after a moment of silence for the hypothetical sacrifice Danae would have made, “that my mother would never get the life she deserved but I came to understand you needed me too. You were young. Your life was just beginning and you needed a mother still.”

“I was so selfish,” Danae says, “To take away everything you worked for and rob Nyota of all this time.”

“We cannot undo the past and I know you sacrificed much to give us this time with her,” Amandla says, “You must know thought that there were so many times I could not be there for you as you wanted or needed. This was a chance for me to show you that I could put your needs before my own.”

“I can’t even imagine how hard that must have been,” Danae says, “To give up her for me.”

Amandla puts her arm around Danae, pulling her daughter near. The younger woman’s form is warm and comforting. Danae settles a bit, sinking into her mother’s embrace. 

“If you did not know, then it is my own fault for not showing you,” Amandla says into her daughter’s hair, “There were times when the life felt so isolating and unstable, I could hardly bear it. You were the Earth beneath my feet. No matter what forces tore at me and tries to uproot me, you were something to hold on to.”

“I was enough?” Danae asks. The same old question.

“You were,” Amandla says, “I see her in your children and their children too. There are parts of her and all of us that will never die.”

The words are easy to say now, after all this time. Perhaps if she had given away more easily, it could have been said earlier.

“Every day I could see you explore the world around you, every year I could see you grow older and thrive, was a blessing. I can go happily knowing I had that.”

Danae rests her head on Amandla’s shoulder, still shaking. 

“Never ask me to say which one of you I valued more,” Amandla says, “You were both everything to me. I could never sacrifice a life with one over the other. 

When this statement became true, Amandla doesn't know. Yet, it is fact now.

Or perhaps this was what Samekh spoke of. Maybe this was that faith which eventually prompted the universe to give.

“Are you sure?” Danae says, staring at the ground, fearful of what her mother might say. 

Amandla says, “I have had a wonderful life. Everything that happened in it, I accept wholeheartedly.”

Looking up into Amandla’s eyes, feeling her mind through their bond for the first time in so long, Danae can see that her mother speaks the truth. 

.  
.  
.

“I heard once that fortune keeps you young but love makes you immortal. There does seem to be something about being in your own space, surrounded by those who care deeply for you,” Danae says. She glances at her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren and smiles. Her eyes crinkle and Nyota has to smile back. 

Amandla and Spock are in the field before them, watching as the family enjoys the lake which is tucked away on their property. Leonard McCoy is there too, being pushed about by Captain Kirk while the children play around him. Every so often one of the little ones will beg to sit in Leonard’s lap. Bones always protests and always gives in eventually.

“They are unbreakable to me, even after all this time. She’ll always be the doctor who challenged death. He’ll always be the Commander who could survive anything,” Danae says, “Losing them would be losing the nucleus of our family.”

They watch as Thandiewe comes up behind Amandla and Spock with an umbrella, shading them from the sun. 

Nyota sees the outline of Amandla’s face, marked by time, experience, and knowledge, and her entire being shudders. She yearns to wipe it all away, to go back to the time when all her baby wanted was to be held or to once again be living the memories of a mischievous, bright little girl who held the world in her hand. She cannot. Days like those slipped away and will never come again. She has been given a taste of immortality, one which had not touched Amandla or Spock.

Suddenly she knows why Thandiewe felt such guilt, why Danae had hesitated to let Nyota come back to them. 

“I want them to live forever,” Nyota says, “What will become of me when they are gone?”

“We will be here,” Danae says, “You are part of our family. That makes you our heart.”

Nyota thinks of the hallways filled with photographs of their family. Spock and Jim with the crew. Imani, T’Tal and Amandla with their laboratory staff. Danae, as a young Olympian. Ama, Amadi, and T’Ora as fresh Starfleet Academy graduates. Francisca and Graciana with their young children at recitals. T’Nya, Selk, T’Ret, and T’Shara standing before the peaks of Olympus Mons. Bonifacio and Chuluuny on their wedding day. The children, growing before her eyes with each passing picture. 

“Can you see them? Can’t you see Amandla and Spock, in our descendant’s faces, personality, and achievements?” Danae asks, “These are parts of them that will never fade.”

“I can and I know that I am here now,” Nyota says. She can either yearn for lost moments or appreciate the ones that have been gifted to her.

“You are. And I will be too,” Danae says. 

.  
.  
.

The communication panel before her is of a more advanced technology than she is accustomed to but its use seems almost intrinsic to her as if she was always meant to know it. She can feel eyes on her and turns to smile at Spock at his own station next to her. 

He had been hesitant when this opportunity had first been presented. Yet, in the back of both their minds, they were always thinking about space. That had been the crux of their lives for so long. It called to them.

And it will not be Amandla nor Spock’s first commission. Spock had never truly retired, choosing instead to assist with short excursions and Amandla had worked with Starfleet for nearly twelve years, albeit with most of her time being served non-consecutively, after Danae had grown up and started her own family. Spock and Amandla had accepted this commission long before Nyota had returned to their side. 

The crew on the Starship is different but Nyota feels at home. There is a Sulu at the helm - Hikaru’s daughter, Demora - and Pavel Chekov’s niece Maria sits next to her. Nyota had visited both Hikaru and Pasha before their departure, to reminisce. Nyota would see them again, in three months during shore leave. Scotty, Gaila, Jaylah, and several other crew members had already invited themselves. Nyota eagerly awaited the reunion. 

She will have much to tell them. Nyota was fluent in 83 languages which had gone extinct during her sleep. She would be helping update the universal translator and bridging any communication gaps which might happened before said task was completed.

Ama sits in the captain’s chair with her first officer Amadi at her side, both looking every bit the accomplished Starfleet officers even as they gently tease each other in between discussing the mission at hand. “We’re the best there is,” Ama had assured them the night before, “We’ve already called in two blood oaths and a favor. This trip will be so dull and safe, you’ll scream.”

T’Ora is down in the Science Department, showing Amandla, T’Tal, Imani, and Bones the ropes. Even Kirk is here, precepting for a group of Command track students from the Academy. 

Later, as Thandie had insisted, they would call Earth and talk to the family, regale them with stories. Nyota was particularly interested in what Danae would have to tell them. It seems her granddaughter had a new cause. Just before they had left, Danae had told them she wanted to see what could be done for the rest of the Enterprise crew that had been left in cryostasis. 

The final checks were completed. The warp core hums underneath them. It’s time.

The USS Tel-alep, a research vessel staffed with the best and brightest. Ama had been selected early for commission as captain and have allowed her grandchildren to name the ship. They had named it after the Vulcan word for the spirit of curiosity. It would stand for all of the ideals of humanity and Starfleet. 

Nyota was afraid, of course. She had always been afraid. No sane person would fly off into the final frontier without a moment of doubt. 

A boat in the harbor was safe but that was not what boats were for. They were not meant to be tied to Earth. This was what they were meant to do. 

How many people were given an opportunity like this?

In the end, there had only been one thing holding them all back. Danae had waved away their concerns, “I’ll be fine. There will be shore leaves and we can talk on the comms and it’s only a year. Do this for me. I know you want to.”

She had even seemed pleased when they had accepted. It was a chance for her to give so that they could thrive.

Nyota recalls sitting with Amandla on her daughter’s first birthday, wondering affectionately if this - exploring the universe together - would be in their future. 

“Are we ready?” Ama asks. At the sound of confirmation, she calls out, “Let’s go.”

Spock leans over, touching their hands together like he used to, a secret kiss. 

In the science department, she knows Amandla is looking out the window, watching as they leave orbit. She is no longer terrified by the vastness but instead sees what life had repeatedly shown her: endless potential. 

They go, eagerly, into the unknown.


End file.
